Dragons

Part One THE PRISONER

ONE - Day 1

I wake up with a start, thinking three things in rapid succession.

First: This is a weird dream.

Second: Wait a sec. This doesn’t feel like a weird dream!

Third: Oh… furk.

My mom wouldn’t approve of that last one.

With a gasp, I sit up on the mattress.

I’m wearing an orange jumpsuit. On my feet are these little white gum-soled canvas pull-ons, without a doubt the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen. Don’t ask me why, but it’s those pull-ons that tip me from confused to scared. But when I look around, scared ratchets up to terrified, and my stomach tries to crawl right up my throat.

I’m in some kind of futurey-looking cube, maybe twelve feet to a side.

Glowing squares in the ceiling cast an artificial light that makes the flat gray walls look, if possible, even flatter and grayer. Nearly every inch of every surface, ceiling and floor included, is made up of featureless metal tiles.

There’s no door, no windows, and no furniture. In fact, the only things in the room, besides the foam mattress, are a square pedestal sink and a somewhat shorter, square toilet. No soap, no towel. Both the sink and john look like they’re made of the same gray tiles as the walls.

I climb to my feet, half-expecting something bad to happen when I do.

When nothing does, I try the sink faucets. The water’s cold. I cup some in my palms and drink. It tastes clean. In fact, it tastes almost too clean. Sterile. That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, but it’s the impression I get.

The toilet works—well, like a toilet. No answers there. With no towel in evidence, I dry my hands on the legs of my jumpsuit.

Above the sink is a small mirror. Except it’s not really a mirror, just a rectangular grouping of those same square tiles. Only these are polished somehow so that they give me back my own reflection.

More futurey weirdness.

My complexion’s sallow, the way I get when I spend too much time playing vid games. If this was home, my mom would be all over me with epithets like, You’re not getting enough rest! and You’re not getting enough sun! I once considered asking her if she wanted me to take long afternoon naps in the backyard.

But, as I recall, I kept that particular snark to myself.

Where are my folks?

Do they know I’m missing? They must, and are probably crazy with worry, even crazier than most parents would be in such circumstances, given—everything.

My heart’s hammering and the sweat on my face and hands has nothing to do with the temperature. Trust me on that one. A part of me wants to lay back down on the palette, curl up into a ball, and—well—hide.

Instead, I say aloud, trying not to sound scared, Okay, what’s the deal?

I don’t expect an answer.

Which is probably why a shock shoots up my spine when I get one.

You’re in no danger.

I don’t scream. Honestly, I don’t.

But I do whirl around, searching for the source of the voice. It sounds mechanical, disguised. That could be a good thing. If my captors don’t want me to be able to ID them, then maybe they don’t intend to murder me after they get the ransom.

You know… the ransom my folks can’t afford to pay.

Except a ransom motive is only the best-case scenario.

Questions tumble through my mind, lots of them. I pick the most obvious. Where am I?

The reply is both immediate and unhelpful. Safe.

Great, I say. The voice seems to come from everywhere at once. I can’t even tell if the speaker’s male or female. Not what I asked, though.

All your questions will be answered eventually. Are you hungry?

No. Though I am.

Thirsty? We can do better than tap water.

No. Though I am.

"Then what are you?"

Pissed off.

This must all be very confusing.

Confusing? You furking kidnapped me!

No immediate response. So, I wait, trying to ignore the twist in my gut.

All this is for the greater good. Soon, everything will be explained to you.

Why not now? Doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere.

Not quite yet.

Listen, if you’re looking for a ransom, you snatched the wrong kid.

We know exactly who we ‘snatched.’ You’re Anthony ‘Andy’ Brand, eighteen-year-old senior at Haddonfield High School in New Jersey, Class of 2099.

My mouth goes dry. If you know all that, then you know that my folks aren’t anything like rich!

We’re not interested in money, Andy. But we’ll address that later. For now, I’d like you to do something for me.

Here it is. The big ask. Will they demand that I strip naked? Could all this be some kind of perv party? I can’t spot a vidcam, but they know I just used the sink, so they must be able to see me. Besides, they changed me into this jumpsuit, which means they’ve already seen my junk.

Unfortunately, bad as a sexual angle would be, there are worse possibilities.

What kind of something? I ask, trying to sound more impatient than scared.

I hear a gentle swoosh from above. I glance up in time to see something drop out of a square hole in the ceiling and land at my feet. A moment later, a tile slides over the hole and blends in with the rest, indistinguishable.

Do all these tiles move?

Warily, I look down at a crumpled piece of paper.

I reach for it.

Don’t bother. It’s blank.

Then what’s it for? I ask, though I know. Of course, I know.

I want you to burn it.

My stomach lurches.

What?

I want you to burn the paper, the voice repeats tonelessly, as if reciting the time of day.

I… don’t understand.

You understand perfectly, Andy. I’m aware of the rules of your people, but these are extraordinary circumstances. As far as any potential damage goes, these walls have an extremely high heat tolerance. Believe me when I say that there’s zero risk.

"Believe me when I say that I don’t care."

I can appreciate that. However, we do need to see it.

See what?

See you burn that wad of paper.

Okay. Fine. Whatever. But you’re going to have to give me a lighter.

Silence.

Or, I don’t know, a match?

I was really hoping you wouldn’t play this game.

I look balefully around, struggling to seem genuinely confused. I don’t know what you want from me! I whine. It’s a good whine, one of my all-time best. How am I supposed to start a fire without even a lousy match?

I’m disappointed, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

I do a dance of exasperation. I scowl. I huff. I throw up my hands, putting all the "What the furk do you expect me to do?" into it as I can.

Burn the paper, Andy.

How?

Burn it.

I can’t!

Of course, you can, and we both know it.

With a frustrated cry that I think sounds genuine, I kick the wad of paper into a corner of my cell. I don’t know who you are, but you’re a lunatic!

All right. Obviously, this was too much too soon. Let’s try again later.

What? Furk later! I want to go home!

The fastest way for that to happen is for you to cooperate.

How can I cooperate when what you’re asking doesn’t make any sense?

Why don’t you get some rest? I suggest you lay down on the pallet. I don’t want you to get hurt when the vector takes effect.

The what?

Lay down. For your own sake.

I’m not doing anything for you! I don’t know what any of this is about, but I want nothing to do with it!

Your call, I suppose.

A moment later, the world starts spinning. Alarmed, I try to steady myself. I can’t. Whatever’s happening to me happens fast. Darkness closes in. As it does, a single horrific understanding wracks my already overtaxed brain.

They know! My God… they know what I am!

Then I hit the floor hard and stay there.

TWO - Days 1-2

Conceal and Protect.

Those words, always capitalized in my mind, were drilled into my head from toddlerhood—so much so that I, as Tony and Bonnie Brand’s son, grew up thinking of it as our family motto. Back when I was in fourth grade, I learned about familial coats of arms. Afterward, totally jazzed, I drew one for my family. It depicted a fire-breathing dragon shooting flames out over a charred and blackened field. I even wrote the words Conceal and Protect, very carefully, above it in big block letters.

Eight-years-old and largely friendless, I showed this masterwork to my mom, who immediately paled.

It’s beautiful, sweetheart. My father was at work, and we were alone in the house. Even so, I remember the way my mother looked furtively around as if worried that someone might see. You’ll be a great artist someday if that’s what you want. But… this isn’t something that you can ever show to anybody.

I was crest-fallen, pun intended. But… I thought we could put it above the fireplace!

Without warning, Mom pulled me into a desperate hug. I wish we could, Andy. Your father and I would be so proud to have it there. But it’s too dangerous. We’ve talked about this.

I squirmed and pulled away. Dad says we shouldn’t be ashamed of what we are.

And he’s right, Mom replied tearfully. But we’re not the only ones in danger.

Why do we have to hide? If we’re not supposed to be ashamed, then why are we always hiding? I’m so sick of hiding!

She looked at me, stricken, and suddenly my newly found, pre-pre-adolescent fury vanished like smoke.

Sorry, I mumbled.

"No, I’m sorry, she said. I know you want to be like the other children. But you’re not. Our family is Kind, and we need to remember how few we are and how many they are. Andy, human beings scare so easily, and they always strike out at what scares them. This means that to live among them, we have to try to appear human… even though we never will be. But it’s not about shame. It’s never about shame."

Now, alone in this strange cell, my mother’s words echo. That day’s conversation was a pivotal one, grimly transformative, and I never forgot a word of it.

We have to try to appear human… even though we never will be.

This, of course, is how my captors must see me.

Inhuman.

When I wake up after being vectored, whatever that means, I’m stretched out on the tile floor where I fell. The room is unchanged. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep. Hours, certainly. Maybe longer. Without a clock or window, time’s a bit of a mystery.

What isn’t a mystery is how hungry I am.

"Hello, Andy."

The Voice—yeah, I’m capitalizing it now—makes me jump a little. I try to hide the reaction and don’t reply.

You must be hungry.

This time, not replying’s harder. My stomach growls.

No? Well, let’s skip breakfast then.

Wait! I call, jumping to my feet. Yes, I’m hungry.

I immediately hear a scraping sound, and another wad of paper lands on the floor in front of me.

Breakfast is waiting. All we ask in return is a little cooperation.

My stomach growls louder. What do you want me to do?

You know the answer to that question.

So… what? You’re not going to feed me unless I obey?

Cooperate, the Voice corrects patiently.

I glare down at the new wad of paper. Then I kick it into the corner with the first one.

No hurry, Andy. When you’re hungry enough, just say so. I’ll keep your food warm.

The Voice goes silent.

I wait, but it doesn’t return.

Time passes furking slowly. The growling in my stomach deepens. I struggle to ignore it. Drinking water helps. Every so often, I go to the sink and fill my belly from its tap. But the feeling doesn’t last and, before long, I have to pee like a racehorse. After a while, I get into a torturous rhythm. I wait until my stomach’s too empty to bear, and then I drink myself full and, later, pee myself silly.

Rinse and repeat.

It makes for a brutal day. I keep expecting the Voice to return, maybe to tempt me, first with lunch, then dinner. But it doesn’t. They’re letting me, as my mother sometimes likes to say when I’m being a snot, stew in my own juices.

It frankly sucks.

But they want me to break Conceal and Protect.

And. That. I. Will. Not. Do.

Eventually, and without warning, the lights dim. They don’t go out completely. If they did, I’d be in pitch darkness in this windowless room. But they drop low enough that I sense this is supposed to be nighttime, that I made it through a full day without eating. I wish I could call it a win, but every second of the ordeal feels like a minute and each minute like an hour. And I have no reason to think the night’s going to be any easier.

I do my best to sleep. Cramps twist my guts, forcing me to lay curled up in a tight ball.

I’ll never know how, but eventually, sleep finds me.

In the morning, after a fitful night of pain and terrible dreams that left me sobbing in the dark, I awake to find a big bowl of oatmeal waiting for me.

I run to it and eat greedily, shoveling the food into my mouth with the included spoon.

As I do, the Voice says, You’re a stubborn young man.

I don’t reply as I lick the bowl clean. I half-expect to vomit, but I don’t. The stuff tasted like paste, thick and sticky but easily digestible. Maybe they don’t want me puking either.

Nice of them.

This would all go so much easier if you’d just cooperate.

How? I ask.

You know how.

"What I know is that you want me to somehow start a fire without a match. If you’re expecting me to use my heat vision, then I suggest you try a big guy in a cape and with a red S on his chest."

The Voice says nothing more.

Sometime later and without ceremony, my lunch arrives.

THREE - Days 2-4

My cell has no shower, though I’m not sure I’d use it if it did. After all, I know they’re watching me.

No vids. No books. Not even a furking deck of cards. Just lots and lots of empty hours.

I spend them thinking.

I begin with a few observations. One, this cell isn’t just clean; it’s immaculate—not a speck of dust to be found. It’s what my science teacher would call hermetically sealed.

So then how does the air get in?

Since that seems a relevant question, I start exploring, examining every tile within reach. They’re all about four inches square, and so tightly packed that I can’t even get a thumbnail into the seams. Each is identical, except for the reflective-mirror ones above the sink and glowing-lamp ones in the ceiling.

Eventually, I find it.

A vent.

It’s just a grouping of six tiles at floor level in one corner. Each has a gridwork of pinprick holes drilled through them. And, when I put my hand against them, I can feel a steady, gentle airflow.

Well, at least they aren’t going to suffocate me.

Time passes.

The lights dim, so I sleep. I wake up when the light returns. Then I sit and wait. Food comes. I eat. Then I sit and wait some more.

The Voice doesn’t speak.

Sound boring? You have no idea.

Finally, four days after first waking up in that cell and two days after finding the vent, everything changes.

Day Five starts like all the rest. Breakfast is due. Oatmeal with cinnamon. Always oatmeal with cinnamon. In the meantime, I’ve taken to sitting beside the vent, liking the air on my face while I wait for the feeding tiles to slide open.

Hello?

I gasp.

It isn’t the Voice. No, this is soft and faint, with nothing tinny or electronic about it.

For several seconds, I don’t dare move.

The whisper comes again, Hello?

The vent.

I slide down closer and peer intently into the gridwork of pinpricks, looking for light. But it’s as black as always.

Once more, the whisperer speaks, Is anybody there?

Gathering myself, I say, Hello. It comes out as a dry croak.

"Oh, my God… I did hear someone!"

Distrust and hope war between my ears. Hope wins, for now. Who are you?

My name’s Miranda. Are you… a prisoner, too?

I process that question. There’s a lot of information in it. Yeah, I finally say. I’m Andy. Um… how long have you been here, Miranda?

I’m not sure. A week, maybe? I count the times they lower the lights.

I smile at that. Me, too. I think this is my fourth or fifth day. I swallow. My heart’s pounding, though I’m not sure why. Do you know what they want?

No. You?

No, I lie, which makes me wonder if she’s lying too. Um… what’s your last name?

What?

It’s a stupid question, but too late to backpedal now. Your last name. What is it?

Fiero, why?

Fiero is Spanish. It means wild, brazen. Fiery. Having it means she might be Kind.

Maybe.

You still there? Miranda asks, sounding a little frantic.

Yeah. I’m here.

Don’t go away, okay? I’ve been all alone. I kind of… need somebody to talk to.

I won’t go anywhere, I promise, meaning it. I’ll just lay here and talk to you for as long as you want.

I’m going to move my pallet over, she tells me. That way, I’ll be more comfortable.

Good idea. Me, too. Hold on.

I stand up, my thoughts churning as I drag my pallet across the tile floor and stretch out on it. Still there?

No reply.

Miranda?

Still nothing.

My heart, which has slowed, starts hammering again.

Miranda!

I’m here! she exclaims. Sorry. It took longer to drag my stuff over than I thought.

The depth of my relief surprises me. Oh… good.

So… Andy. What should we talk about? She sounds nervous but hopeful. This doesn’t feel like a ‘small talk’ situation. Besides, I couldn’t tell you what the weather’s like if you asked. I haven’t been out of this room since I got here, and there’s not exactly a view.

Yeah, I reply, smiling like an idiot. I say we stick to common ground. You tell me how you got here, and I’ll tell you how I got here.

Um… aren’t you worried they might be listening?

"I know they’re listening. I just don’t care."

She giggles. It’s a sweet sound. You’re right. Furk ‘em!

At that, we both laugh, the sudden camaraderie pleasantly natural.

How’d they get you? I ask.

Uh, uh. You first.

I hedge, but only briefly. I was walking home from school in the rain. There was nobody but me on the street. All of a sudden, this van pulls up. At first, I thought it was just parking. Then three guys in black jump out. They don’t say a word. They just grab me and press something over my face.

Like chloroform? she asks.

Fancier. It felt like a gas mask. But it did the same thing. I took a breath, and that was it. The next thing I knew, I woke up here, and this voice was talking to me.

I wait, but Miranda says nothing. Maybe she’s hedging, too.

Finally, she says, I got taken right out of my bed in the middle of the night. I live with my father. I woke up just in time to feel them grab me and put a cloth over my face… in my case, definitely chloroform.

Did they hurt your father?

They say they didn’t.

Good. I’m relieved, though I’m not sure why. It’s not as if I think our captors are paragons of truthfulness or anything.

How old are you? Miranda asks.

Eighteen, I say, a little tentatively.

Me, too. Where do you live?

Haddonfield, New Jersey. It’s near Philadelphia. You?

Carmel, she replies. California.

Two kids taken—well, at least two—one from each U.S. coast. Too far apart to be random, but I figured that out the moment the first wadded piece of paper dropped out of the ceiling.

Did they test Miranda, too? Very probably they did, if she’s Kind.

But I’d never ask. Doing so would be the same as admitting to the Voice that they’re right about me.

Conceal and Protect.

What do they want from us, Andy?

I don’t know.

Have they hurt you?

Yes, I say.

They have? How?

They’re keeping me in a cage against my will, I reply. That hurts me.

But they haven’t… tortured you, or anything.

They didn’t feed me during my second day. But that’s stopped. Now I get meals pretty regularly.

As if on cue, I hear the feeding tiles slide open, followed by the now-familiar scrape of a tray being pushed through. I don’t bother looking up.

My breakfast’s here, she says.

Mine too.

Want to eat with me?

Sure, I say.

FOUR - Day 5-9

Over the next few days, my girl next door and I huddle in the corners of our respective cells. We talk about everything and anything, passing long hours in the comfort of each other’s company.

Miranda was born in Arizona. Her mother died in childbirth, and her father moved them—she and her brother—to California before she turned one. Her father’s a capital investor, whatever that is. She’s eager to talk about her childhood, for the most part. But, when I ask about her brother, Miranda’s attitude changes, becoming more subdued.

His name was Charlie, she says.

Um… was?

He died.

Oh. I’m sorry.

It happened a while ago. A sudden heart attack. Some kind of congenital problem that nobody knew about.

That sucks, Miranda.

When she answers, her tone is unusually self-possessed, deliberate. Charlie was always my father’s golden boy, his heir apparent. He’d been home for the summer from Oxford when he just… collapsed. My father was devastated. Then, after a pause, she adds, So was I.

I have no idea what to say.

Andy? You there?

I’m here. Sorry, Miranda. For your loss, I mean. Ugh. I’m not good at this kind of thing.

Don’t worry about it.

I feel like a moron.

Andy?

I’m here.

Don’t stop talking to me, okay?

I’m quietly relieved. Okay.

We swap theories about the Voice. As a calculated risk, I tell her about the wads of paper and the Voice’s demand that I somehow burn them. When I’m done, I ask carefully, So… are they going after you for anything crazy like that?

No. They pretty much just leave me alone.

Pretty much?

Well, the Voice sometimes grills me about my dad and me: where we go on vacation; what religion we belong to; even what restaurants we like.

That’s way different from me, I say, perplexed. Either she’s not Kind, or she is, but she’s cagier than I am. Either way, I’m stymied.

I’m bothered a little that Miranda seems more willing than I am to cooperate with our captors. She insists that she answers their every question truthfully and completely, which means she’s never been badgered or starved. It seems—I don’t know—collaborative. But the more we talk, the more I get that she’s as scared as I am. The difference is that I’ve channeled my fear into defiance. She’s gone the other way, hoping that cooperation will get her home.

I wonder which of us is right.

What if we’re both wrong?

Then, eventually, she gets around to asking what I look like.

Pretty ordinary, I guess, I reply.

You mean you’ve got two eyes, two ears, and a nose, just like everybody else?

Sure.

Kind of plain-looking? Sort of… meh?

Yeah… Wait! No!

She laughs. Then how about specifics? Pretend you’re looking in a mirror. What do you see?

I sigh. I’m tall and kind of skinny.

What color’s your hair?

Brown.

Long or short.

Short.

Straight or curly?

Totally straight.

Eyes?

Brown.

Skin color?

White, I guess.

Pimples?

Shut up.

She giggles.

Fine, I say, pretending to be annoyed. Your turn. Hair?

Blonde.

Details. Honey blonde? Strawberry blonde? Or are you a bleached blonde like my sixty-year-old neighbor?

Cute. I guess you’d call it dirty blonde.

Long? Short? Curly? Straight?

Wavy, I suppose.

Skin color?

My father calls it olive-skinned… except for my teardrop.

Your what?

Never mind.

Come on. What teardrop?

I’m not sure why I mentioned it. It’s… embarrassing.

You know about my pimples.

Yeah, but everybody gets those. This is more… permanent.

"Well, now you have to tell me."

Promise you won’t laugh?

Swear to God.

She says, I’ve got this birthmark under my right eye. It’s what they call a port-wine stain, except mine is shaped like a teardrop. It’s almost perfect, so much so that most people assume it’s a tattoo.

That sounds really cool, I say, meaning it.

It’s awful. I’ve tried to get it removed, but it’s so close to my eye that the doctors won’t touch it.

So? From what you’re describing, it sounds…

Sounds what?

I take the chance. Beautiful.

When she doesn’t reply, I worry I’ve gone too far. Then she says, with a smile in her voice, Thanks.

You’re welcome. But we’re not done. What color are your eyes?

"I think I liked it better when I was interrogating you."

Now it’s my turn to laugh. It feels good to laugh. Blue? I ask. Green? Hazel?

Sort of gray, I guess.

Gray? I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with gray eyes.

Well, now you have.

Not yet. Not until we’re face to face. How tall are you?

About five-five. You? You said you’re tall.

Six-four.

Jeez. You’re a giant!

I smile. Only among lesser mortals. It’s something my dad likes to say—sardonic for a number of reasons.

Wow! Miranda exclaims. "If… I mean, when… we do meet, I’m going to break my neck looking up at—" She suddenly stops talking. I wait, straining to hear. Seconds tick by.

Miranda? I ask.

Do I hear voices? If so, they’re faint. Over the past few days, we’ve figured out that sound doesn’t carry between our cells unless it originates right beside the vents. Once, as an experiment, I tried standing across the room and shouting, but Miranda reported afterward that she couldn’t hear a thing.

Just like I can’t hear anything now.

So, I wait. But Miranda doesn’t come back.

I try calling. Nothing. I try again. The same. Eventually, I lay back on my pallet, which is now permanently stationed beside the vent. There, I stay, leaving only to drink from the tap, pee in the toilet, or fetch first one meal, and then another from the slot across the room.

She doesn’t return.

Eventually, the lights dim. But I can’t sleep. No way.

Sometime later, as I lie on my back in the dark, a single word slips through the vent. Andy?

Miranda! I exclaim. You okay?

Shhh! I don’t want them to hear this part.

What? What part?

They told me not to tell you.

Tell me what?

Some guys came in. They were wearing uniforms with a weird insignia. Corporate, I think.

Corporate? That makes no sense. What kind of insignia?

It was an embroidered Planet Earth, or one hemisphere of it, with missiles or rockets blasting off it.

With a start, I realize that I know that logo.

Did the uniforms have the letters CSE anywhere? I ask.

Yes! Miranda whispers sharply. On both shoulders. Do you know what it means?

Yeah, but it’s nuts.

Tell me!

It stands for Coffin Solar Exploration. It’s part of Coffin Industries. You know… Charles Coffin.

The billionaire?

That’s him.

How do you know?

"I’m kind of a science nerd, and you can’t swipe through ten pages of any tech journal without Coffin Industries getting a shout-out. They’re in everything from biotech to global communications, and CSE practically owns space travel. I don’t think there’s a colony in the Solar System that Charles Coffin doesn’t either own or run, and his security forces have been contracted by the U.N. to serve as an off-world police force."

You think those guys in the black uniforms are… cops?

Corporate cops, yeah.

So, we’ve been kidnapped by a… billionaire?

Or somebody working for him. What did they want from you?

"They didn’t say at first. They just showed up and grabbed me without a word. Then they took me down a hallway to this other room. Inside was a chair and a doctor. The doctor ran tests on me. It took forever, and it hurt. I kept asking her what she was testing me for, but she told me I wasn’t allowed to know yet."

Yet? I say. What’s that supposed to mean?

No clue. When she was finally done, the doctor had me brought back here. She made a point of saying that they know you and I are talking and, for the most part, they don’t care. But I wasn’t supposed to mention what had happened to me, not a word of it. Or else.

Or else what?

She didn’t say. You don’t think they’d… I don’t know… separate us or something, do you?

The very idea sends a jolt of panic through me. No way, I tell her.

Good.

Um… I don’t suppose this doctor mentioned anything about me?

No. Sorry. Except for not talking to you about any of this, your name didn’t come up at all.

Figures. Anything about when they’re going to let us go?

I asked. But she wouldn’t say. I hear her yawn. "Listen, Andy. I couldn’t wait to get back here and tell you what happened, no matter what they said. But… now that I have, I’m really tired. You mind if I go to sleep?"

Of course not, I tell her. I’m pretty beat, too. I haven’t slept either.

You haven’t?

"Been too worried about you."

That’s really sweet, she says with another smile in her voice. Hearing it puts ants in my stomach. But in a good way.

Thanks, I say.

For what?

For telling me what happened. For not listening to them.

Andy, she replies. All we have is each other.

FIVE - Day 10

They come for me after breakfast the next morning.

Miranda’s been telling me about this dream she had last night. In it, she was stuck inside a tight little box, unable to move or breathe. Completely trapped. Seriously, you don’t need to be Freud to figure that one out, and I almost say so. But then a big section of the wall across from me opens, a hundred tiles sliding aside all at once. It’s the first time I’ve seen it happen on this scale, and it might have been cool under different circumstances. Beyond the newly created archway, I see only a featureless corridor.

Two stone-faced men enter. They are both wearing black uniforms, though I notice that the insignia Miranda described is conspicuously absent.

Interesting.

Come with us, one of them commands.

Where? I ask, sitting on my pallet in the corner.

No questions, he says.

No promises, I say.

Come on, the other one tells me. Don’t make this hard.

Where am I? I ask.

Instead of replying, they cross my cell and yank me to my feet. Then, each gripping an upper arm, they march me out into an empty hallway. There are no visible doors, which I suppose makes sense. Who needs doors when the walls themselves are malleable?

I’ve even heard of such tech. Last year, during a field trip to the Franklin Institute, I saw an exposition of new architectural sciences. They had a demo of something like this.

What did they call the stuff? Some trendy, catchy name…

Liquid Bricks. That was it.

And guess what corporation sponsored the exhibition.

My guards haul me along the corridor, ignoring my questions. Their treatment isn’t rough exactly, just hurried, as if I might be contagious.

Or flammable.

As we approach the hallway’s blank end, another doorway appears, the tiles sliding aside all but soundlessly. It’s a cool effect, and I almost say so. Before I have the chance, I’m ushered into this new room. It’s at least twice the size of my cell and filled with sophisticated medical equipment. In the center stands what looks like a dentist’s chair, except it’s surrounded by gadgets that I’ve never seen in any dentist’s office.

That looks scary, I remark.

Nothing to worry about, one of the men replies.

Have a seat, adds the other.

I have a seat. The chair’s well-cushioned and nicely ergonomic. Frankly, it’s the most physically comfortable I’ve been since waking up a captive. Seeing me properly settled, my guards take up posts beside the newly formed doorway.

Moments later, a woman enters. She’s tall, slender, and very dark-skinned, with short-cropped hair and a cold, almost regal beauty. She’s wearing a green jumpsuit with white piping that, for some reason, screams doctor at me. Nodding to the guards, she approaches the chair and offers me a thin, professional smile.

Good morning, Mister Brand.

Hi, I say.

I’m Doctor Afua Okeke, and I’m going to be running some tests this morning.

That’s nice. Where am I, Afua?

She eyes me. Frankly, if you were more cooperative, you’d know by now. As it is, you’ll just have to live with the mystery until you decide to behave more like an adult than a petulant child.

I gape at her. When I made my demand, I expected silence, maybe even threats, not a lecture.

Unfortunately, as my parents can testify, I suck at being lectured. Oh, I get it. I’ve been kidnapped, drugged, starved, and imprisoned… and now I’m supposed to be a grown-up and shrug it off? Is that what you’re saying?

Okeke looks taken aback. Mister Brand—

Furk you, I say. Your ‘disapproval’ of my behavior means exactly zilch. Cooperation goes both ways. You want mine? How about starting with some answers? What is this place, and why am I here?

The uniformed guys step forward menacingly. I ignore them. Meanwhile, Okeke studies me with new eyes—not respect so much as renewed fascination, as if I’m a lab rat that’s just presented her with some unexpected data.

Finally, she says, "I’m not authorized to provide those answers. However, if you’ll allow me to run my tests, I’ll speak to the… person in charge. Perhaps we should adjust our attitude toward you."

Adjust your attitude, I mutter, parsing the promise.

Quite so. Now then, can we get to work?

I agree because, let’s face it, what choice do I really have? Okay.

Good. Now sit back. I’d like to start with a few basic health questions.

What comes next frustrates both of us. No, I don’t know my blood type. No, I don’t know if there’s any history of cancer, heart disease, stroke, diabetes, typhoid, cholera, swine flu, or Rocky Mountain spotted fever in my family’s history. I’m not sure what my mother’s parents died of, nor my father’s. I’ve got no idea if I might be anemic, and I’m honestly not even sure what hyperthyroidism is.

Okeke records my unhelpful responses on some kind of gadget she wears on her wrist. Then the physical stuff begins. Over the next few hours, she tests my vision, hearing, breathing, heart rate, blood pressure, body fat percentage, and something she dubs my synaptic efficiency. She takes a blood sample (painful), a urine sample (embarrassing), and even a stool sample (totally disgusting). For the record, those last two are collected by yours truly in a nearby alcove with a toilet.

Finally, she tapes something to my forehead and says, This is the last test. You’ve been very patient. Thank you.

Does she expect a You’re welcome? If so, she’ll be disappointed.

But apparently, she doesn’t.

I’m going to ask you a series of important questions. I want you to answer quickly and honestly. Will you do that?

Whatever, I tell her.

Absolute honesty is required here.

Sure. I don’t mean it, of course. I wasn’t taught honesty when I was a kid, at least not where ‘important questions’ are concerned. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Looking me hard in the face, she says, "You grew up in New