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We find the bodies in the stairwell that leads to the underground complex. Seven recruits, no blood, and not a scratch on them. Obviously, whoever did this was enhanced. Two of the kids have their heads completely twisted around so they stare up at us, though their bodies are facedown. I hand Sullivan one of their pistols. We pick our way through the pile and continue down. She holds the gun in one hand; the other is clutching my sleeve. She couldn’t see the recruits and didn’t ask what happened or what I saw. She either doesn’t want to know or she figures it doesn’t matter.
Only one thing matters, she said. She’s right. I’m just not sure either one of us can explain what that is.
At the very bottom there is darkness and silence and a hallway even my enhanced eyes cannot see the end of. But I remember where I am. I’ve been here before, beneath the constant glow. This is where Razor found me, rescued me, gave me hope, and then betrayed me.
I stop. Her hand grips my sleeve hard.
“I can’t see a goddamned thing,” Sullivan whispers. “Where’s the green door?”
“You’re standing in front of it.”
I ease her to one side and trot down the hall a dozen yards to get a running start. For all I know, even an enhanced human being can’t bust through that door’s locking mechanism. No choice, though. Halfway to the door, I’ve reached full velocity and nearly don’t have the space to pull up when Sullivan steps in front of me and tries the handle.
The door opens. I slide six feet to a stop. And I’m glad she can’t see the startled expression on my face. She’d laugh.
“They don’t need to lock the door if there’s no power,” she points out. “Wonderland needs juice, right?”
Of course she’s right. I feel stupid for not foreseeing the obvious.
“I understand,” she says, reading my mind. “You’re not used to feeling stupid. Trust me, you get used to it.” She smiles. “Maybe Wonderland has its own dedicated power system—just in case.”
We step into the room. Sullivan closes the door behind us. Her fingertips brush over the dead keypad for a second before dropping to her side. After everything, her capacity to hope has not died.
“What now?” she asks after I’ve pressed several buttons on the console with no result.
I don’t know, Sullivan. You’re the one who demanded we come here when you knew they killed the power.
“There’s no backup?” she asks. “You’d think it’d have batteries or something, in case they accidentally lost power.”
Then she says, more to fill the silence than anything else, “I’ll stay here. You go find the power station or whatever and get the lights back on.”
“Sullivan. I’m thinking.”
“You’re thinking.”
“Yes.
”
“That’s what you’re doing. Thinking.”
“It’s what I do best.”
“And all this time I thought killing people was what you did best.”
“Well, if I had to pick two things to be really good at . . .”
“Don’t joke,” she says.
“I never do.”
“See? That’s fundamental. That’s a critical flaw.”
“So is talking too much.”
“You’re right. I should kill more and talk less.”
I’m running my hands along the tabletop. Nothing. I drop to the floor and crawl beneath the counter. A tangle of wires, couplings, extension cords. I stand up. On the wall, flat-screen monitors—no cords, probably wirelessly connected to the system. Nothing else to Wonderland except the keyboard, but there has to be something else. Where is the data stored? Where’s the processor? Of course, this is alien technology. Vosch could be carrying the processor in his pocket. It could be on a chip the size of a single grain of sand embedded in his brain.
