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Then he got up for the last time. He tossed the gun away. He stepped over her writhing body, and that’s as far as he got before falling for the last time.
He crawled toward the bag. She crawled after him. She couldn’t stand up. The bullet had shattered her spinal cord. She was paralyzed from the waist down. But she was stronger than him and hadn’t lost as much blood.
He scooped the plastic bag from the floor. Her hand fell on his arm and yanked him toward her as if he weighed nothing at all. She would finish him with a single punch to his dying heart.
But all he had to do was breathe.
He slapped the opening of the bag over his mouth.
And breathed.
BOOK TWO
50
I’M SITTING ALONE in a windowless classroom. Blue carpet, white walls, long white tables. White computer monitors with white keyboards. I’m wearing the white jumpsuit of new recruits. Different camp, same drill, down to the implant in my neck and a trip to Wonderland. I’m still paying for that trip. You don’t feel empty after they drain your memories. You’re sore as hell all over. Muscles retain memory, too. That’s why they have to strap you down for the ride.
The door opens and Commander Alexander Vosch steps into the room. He carries a wooden box that he sets down on the table in front of me.
“You’re looking well, Marika,” he says. “Much better than I expected.”
“My name is Ringer.”
He nods. He understands exactly what I mean. More than once I’ve wondered if the information gathered by Wonderland flows both ways. If you can download human experience, why couldn’t you upload it? It’s possible the person who is smiling at me now contains the memories of every single human being who’s been through the program. He may not be human—and I have my doubts about that—but he may also be the sum of all humans who have passed through Wonderland’s gates.
“Yes. Marika is dead.” He sits down across from me. “And now here you are, rising phoenixlike from her ashes.”
He knows what I’m going to say. I can tell by the twinkling in his baby-blue eyes. Why can’t he just tell me? Why do I have to ask?
“Is Teacup alive?”
“Which answer are you more likely to trust? Yes or no?”
Think before you respond. Chess teaches that. “No.”
“Why?”
“Yes could be a lie to manipulate me.”
He’s nodding appreciatively. “To give you false hope.”
“To gain leverage.”
He cocked his head and looked down his narrow nose at me. “Why would someone like me need leverage over someone like you?”
“I don’t know. There must be something you want.”
“Otherwise . . . ?”
“Otherwise I’d be dead.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His stare pierces down to my bones. He gestures at the wooden box.
“I brought you something. Open it.”
I look at the box. Look back at him. “I’m not going to do it.”
“It’s just a box.”
