Merged Read online

  “We all understand the consequences of failure,” the raven-haired man says.

  The woman lifts a cloth handkerchief to her mouth and coughs. “Given the alternative, what harm is there if they meet once?”

  “I concur. If there is any chance to save Sophie, we must allow it,” the bearded man adds.

  Lake

  If I fail, who will take my place as the Nobel of Chemistry?

  I was selected by the Darwinians to be one of the first six who shatter the fundamental belief that we only have one life. Each of us represents a Nobel Prize discipline: Chemistry, Physics, Physiology, Literature, Economics, and Peace. I’ve been so curious about the others in my inaugural class. Why did they choose to undergo the procedure? Which brilliant person was implanted into their brains? How are they going to change the world? They all must be impressive, but it’s the Nobel for Peace who has me most intrigued. I’ve been picturing someone Gandhi-like. I’d planned to ask if they would teach me how to approach the world with more compassion.

  My chest constricts and it becomes hard to breathe. If I get kicked out, the lost opportunities are unimaginable. Except, during my sleepless nights, that’s all I’ve been imagining. And the losses aren’t only mine. If we don’t merge, Sophie loses her ability to experience aspects of a second life.

  Deborah finally returns. “I want you to meet someone from the Program.”

  A Nobel? Then I recall the briefings. They said I wouldn’t be fraternizing with Nobels until after Sophie and I merge. I suppose they don’t want the washouts knowing the names of certain teenagers who suddenly display wisdom beyond their years.

  A boy my age strides in with such an air of confidence, he must have already merged. He can tell me how he did it! Does this mean the Darwinians aren’t giving up on me today? Hope tentatively emerges from its hiding place.

  He nods a greeting when his near-black eyes land on me. I smile for the first time in a week.

  He could be a movie star, or a model. Wavy, black hair; high cheekbones; and a dimpled, chiseled chin. He’s basketball-player tall and wearing perfectly pressed, tan khakis and a perfectly pressed, blue Oxford shirt. I wouldn’t be surprised if he went to one of those prep schools where the tuition costs more than Grandma Bee’s house.

  “Stryker, this is Lake,” Deborah says. “We thought it would be helpful if our Candidates got to know each other.”

  Candidate? Then he can’t tell me what I’m doing wrong. My renewed dream shatters like cold titanium.

  Stryker’s demeanor transforms from magnetic to haughty, and he looks at me as if I’m a foul-smelling beggar blocking the path to his Audi. “I came here to meet a Nobel.”

  “I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about,” Deborah says with a tight smile.

  “This is a waste of time,” Stryker says, turning his back on me.

  “I’ll return in an hour,” Deborah announces.

  An hour? With him? He’s treating me like we’re two protons, forever repelled by each other. And I haven’t even uttered a word.

  Stryker says, “Don’t forget to lock the door.” He heads to the bookcase and proceeds to ignore me.

  Deborah’s smile wavers, but she has no qualms about leaving us alone.

  Two can play this game. I amble over to the other end of the bookcase, pull out the thickest book within reach, sit cross-legged on the couch, and draw the throw over my lap, as if settling in for a tranquil rainy afternoon. The only thing missing is a steaming mug of mint tea.

  I see that I’ve chosen Ulysses, a book I’ve been meaning to read. I turn to the first page, and under hooded eyes watch Stryker circling the room while examining the ceiling. Apparently, he finds plaster more intriguing than me. Why do I care? I push down my irritation, lick the tip of my finger, and turn the unread page.

  “So, it’s Kate?” asks the most acrimonious guy I’ve ever met.

  If he’s a Nobel Candidate, his IQ is well into genius level. Yet he can’t remember my name? “Lake. What’s yours again?”

  I think I see a flicker of admiration in his eyes. “Stryker.”

  He strolls the room, like he’s perusing beach chairs, before choosing an uncomfortable, wooden chair over the option of sitting next to me. I have showered today. I even brushed my teeth.

  “Have you completed the procedure?” He asks in a bored tone, as if our futures didn’t hang on this monumental accomplishment.

  I’d rather smell butyric acid than admit to him that I’m about to get kicked out of the Nobels Program. But this might be my only chance to compare experiences with another Candidate. Why else would Deborah bring us together?

  Grandma Bee taught me the best way to deal with someone unpleasant is to kill them with kindness. “My final phase was a week ago,” I answer, pleasantly.

  “Aaah, hence the meeting.”

  Hence? Who talks like that? I force a smile. “Have you finished the final phase yet?”

  Stryker examines his large, well-groomed hands as if he’d never noticed them before. “That’s what they tell me.”

  It was a simple polar question. His apathetic response doesn’t ring true. Could there be two of us who can’t merge? “How long have you been trying to connect with your Mentor?” I test.

  “A few weeks, maybe longer.” His gaze flits around the room. “Who can keep track when you’re in lockdown?”

  So I’m not the only one.

  This news should make me feel better about my own failed attempts, except another significant mind might be lost. I take in the dark bags hanging from Stryker’s eyes. If he wants this half as much as I do, then he has to be demoralized, too.

  “I haven’t been able to merge, either,” I admit. “What if we work together to find the solution?” When he doesn’t respond, I add, “Studies have confirmed that combined knowledge maximizes performance, but only when the participants are equally competent, and can discuss their disagreements.”

  He looks like he’s contemplating it, until he shakes his head. Is the problem that he’s not good with criticism, or that he doesn’t consider me his equal?

  “What’s the alternative?” I snap. “Leave because you’re too proud to admit you need help?”

  Stryker looks into my eyes and I expect to see anger, but it’s something else entirely. Fear?

  He strides over to the door and starts pounding.

  The last vestiges of hope vanish. And, he’s not even willing to discuss it.

  A guard opens the door. Deborah has asked me to stop calling the men dressed in black guards—despite the fact they resemble henchmen from a James Bond movie. She explained the Not-Guards are here for my protection.

  “We want to take a walk outside,” Stryker informs the man whose neck is thicker than my thigh.

  News to me.

  Lake

  “We’re not prisoners,” Stryker counters after Not-A-Guard refuses to let us pass.

  “I have my orders.” He stands straighter, but he’s only eye-level with Stryker’s Adam’s apple.

  “I want to discuss this with the person who gave those orders.” Stryker takes a step closer to the human barricade, and the room’s barometric pressure plunges so quickly I brace myself for a migraine.

  “Back off,” Not-A-Guard says, an octave lower. “Now.”

  Stryker stands firm.

  Deborah shows up then, breaking up the testosterone-fueled tension. I begin to breathe again. I can handle the sight of blood, but violence goes well beyond acceptable limits of reactants.

  “Our protocol requires Nobel Candidates to remain within the complex,” she says.

  “Why is that again?” Stryker asks.

  Deborah lets out a long sigh. “You agreed to these terms. Once you’re a Nobel, you’ll have free rein.”

  “You obviously brought us here because you hope we can help each other become Nobels.” Stryker looks at me and raises one eyebrow. An olive branch? “Give us some spac
e to build trust.” He sounds so sincere, it’s disconcerting that he was just acting as if he’d rather have direct contact with the Ebola virus than collaborate with me.

  “It’s raining,” Deborah says.

  Stryker turns to me and asks, “You don’t mind a little weather, do you?”

  “It would feel great to be outside,” I admit. I haven’t seen the sky in weeks, and I am curious to learn what Stryker is up to.

  “Deb, we won’t go far.” Stryker flashes her a radiant smile, transforming his face into someone who appears almost likeable. “I’m sure you can find us a couple of umbrellas.”

  “All right,” she finally agrees. “But someone needs to accompany you.”

  What does she think we’ll do, escape? The only way I’m leaving here is with ripped fingernails after being pried from the door jamb.

  Deborah unlocks the door and tells Not-A-Guard, “Find some umbrellas.”

  He returns with them in a surprisingly short amount of time. They’ve done an admirable job of anticipating our every need.

  “Come on, Lake,” Stryker commands, like I’m his faithful dog. At least he got my name right this time.

  “Go with them,” Deborah directs to the human tank.

  I follow Stryker down the hallway and have to practically jog to keep up with his long strides. We enter an elevator and ascend in a silence so absolute it feels like we’re in a vacuum. The doors slide open to a wall of windows, and I balk. A storm chaser would think twice before going out there.

  “Don’t tell me you’re worried about your hair,” Stryker says, dryly.

  Why does the one person who may possess the knowledge I require have to be him? I mentally count to ten. “Let’s do it.”

  After Not-A-Guard flashes his crystal keycard in front of the reader, Stryker pushes the exit door open. Within seconds, he’s so far ahead, I can barely see him through the deluge.

  “I thought we came out here to brainstorm,” I yell.

  He lopes back to me. “Sorry. I was going to lose it if I didn’t get out of there.”

  I didn’t expect an apology out of him.

  He glances at our escort, who is standing within earshot, without an umbrella, as if trying to prove his heartiness to Stryker. “Let’s go talk under that tree.”

  We dash to a towering oak. The umbrella did little to prevent me from getting saturated, but the dense canopy is at least sheltering us from the wind gusts. The humidity has transformed Stryker’s hair into a helmet of ringlets. I’m sure mine looks like I’m touching a Van de Graaff generator.

  “So, have you experienced any post-procedure dreams?” I ask.

  “I need to frisk you for a wire first,” Stryker says.

  I step back. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re right, that might be awkward. Can you lift up your shirt enough so I can see your entire waist?”

  “No!” I look over at our escort, and thankfully he’s still not-guarding me.

  Stryker slowly scans me from the crown of my head to my purple-painted toes. “It’s probably not necessary. I doubt a wire would still function after getting as soaked as you are.”

  “Why would you think I’m wearing a wire?” I hold up my hands to ward off his answer. “Never mind. This is not worth it. I’ll figure out how to merge by myself.” I turn to leave.

  “You do realize they were listening to us in the Sanctuary,” Stryker says to my back.

  My inquisitive nature gets the best of me. “What are you saying?”

  “I didn’t see any evidence of a bug in the ceiling. My guess is it’s either in a light fixture or an electrical outlet.”

  Goosebumps sprout along my arms. “Did someone tell you we were being bugged?”

  “No, but it’s obvious. Deb showed up far too quickly.”

  “Or, she was walking by and heard you playing chicken with our friend over there.”

  Stryker looks at me as if I’d just told him matter is composed of air, water, earth, and fire. “Assume everything we say is being monitored.”

  I finally understand what Not-A-Guard could be protecting me from: the Nobel Candidate who outwardly looks like da Vinci’s “David” but inwardly may be a conspiracy theorist. Which Nobel field requires paradoxical criterion like that?

  “What’s your discipline?” I ask.

  “Peace.”

  My laugh catches in my throat when he doesn’t smile. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Why is that so hard to believe?” His words leave ice crystals in the air. Either my perception of Gandhi is flawed, or I’ve been completely misjudging Stryker.

  He looks away, but not before I see his face. I think I hurt his feelings, which only adds to my bewilderment. “I didn’t mean to imply you wouldn’t make a great Nobel for Peace,” I say, even though that’s exactly what I’m questioning.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He glances over my shoulder. “We need to get out of here.”

  “All indications point to our getting kicked out of the Program, so you’ll soon get your wish.”

  “You don’t understand,” he says in an ominous whisper.

  I cross my arms, then uncross them when I realize I might appear close-minded. “Then explain it to me.”

  “They’re not going to let us walk away and return to our old lives.”

  A chill runs down my spine. “The documents clearly stated—”

  “Think about it. They’re conducting an experiment that involves ending the lives of some of the world’s most influential people. They can’t risk any loose ends.”

  “Stryker, they’re the ones who created a cover story as a precaution if the transfer didn’t work.” Mine was that I’d been on a cruise with my aunt, and there was sketchy cell phone coverage, which was why none of my friends could reach me. I hoped to never need to use it.

  “They had to create scenarios like that, so we’d agree to come here,” he says.

  “Our parents will call the police if they never hear from us again.” Dad would at least do that, wouldn’t he?

  Stryker counts off on his fingers. “First, our parents signed Non-Disclosure Agreements with serious consequences for breaking them. Second, they don’t know where we are. And third, you have no idea what they’ve been telling your parents since you got here.”

  Parent. Singular.

  “And it’s not only our parents they have to worry about,” he continues. “Do you honestly think you could keep a secret this big to yourself? Even if you have the best of intentions, the odds are against them that something about this place is going to slip out at some point. They can’t take that chance.”

  “You’re forgetting, if we can’t merge, they’ll expunge our memories from the time we arrived.”

  “I’m not allowing them to electroshock my brain.”

  “That’s old school. There are several drugs already created to overcome addiction by eliminating memories that occurred while on a stimulant, like meth. These drugs disrupt non-muscle myosin IIB, thus interrupting the unstable actin and erasing the memory of the high. It wouldn’t take a huge leap to elevate that work and eliminate longer periods of time.”

  He looks at me with what might be an ounce of respect. “I take it you’re the Nobel Candidate for Chemistry.”

  “And that’s why I’m not leaving. I need to eliminate the word Candidate.”

  “You’d better hope you do it before they eliminate you altogether.”

  The Darwinians want to preserve knowledge that would otherwise be lost when someone dies. They’re visionaries, not killers. Stryker has obviously spent too much time alone with his over-active imagination. A missing puzzle piece snaps into place.

  “Stryker, are you willing to agree that there’s no need to flee if you merge?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “I have a theory.”

  “Yeah, they screwed up when they implanted Bjorn into my brain.”

 
“That’s the issue. You no longer think Bjorn is viable. And you helped me understand that I’ve been doing the same. I’ve been so consumed with the state of Sophie’s afterlife, I unintentionally dismissed the possibility that her consciousness is still alive.”

  “So, what are you suggesting?”

  “I’m postulating that the solution to merging is to believe we still can.”

  Orfyn

  Two days after Take This Cup and Rosa disappeared, I’m summoned to Sister Mo’s office.

  It’s more crowded than I’ve ever seen it. The Bishop—the Bishop!—has commandeered her well-organized desk. I’ve endured more than one lengthy lecture from where he’s seated. Father Burke, looking quite shoved aside, hovers behind him. Taking up the chairs against the wall are two men wearing stern expressions and even sterner suits. Not going-to-church suits. Power suits. One is in a charcoal hue, and the other is the color of cold, blue slate, like gathering storm clouds. The man in charcoal ruffles through his briefcase, and the other scrutinizes me as I stand in the doorway.

  Sister Mo is in a chair normally reserved for us kids. The mismatched chair next to her waits expectantly.

  A nun and an orphan in a room packed with men in suits and clerical collars. My heart starts racing.

  Sister Mo stands as I enter, and when she does, the others jump to their feet. Even the Bishop. I know it’s her way of exercising control. Get your respect, you, she always says.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable, Kevin.” The Bishop waves majestically toward the empty chair. It’s startling to hear him say my name, and it’s probably not a good thing that he knows it.

  Only after Sister Mo lowers her imposing, six-foot-tall frame do I sit as directed, but I am far from feeling comfortable.

  The Bishop clears his throat. “As I was saying, Sister, this is good news. A blessed success.”

  “We have procedures, Your Excellency.” Sister Mo’s tone is respectful, but it’s clear she’s not about to do whatever it is he wants her to do. Unwavering. “There is not even an application.”