“Do you have children, Commander Wells?” Ingrid asks.
I shrug nonchalantly. “We don’t track paternity. Procreation is our priority, though.”
Nothing disturbed me more than the system the regime had us set up for Rising Tide. Mindless rutting. Women giving birth to babies not knowing who fathered them and then having those newborns sent to a building where they’re raised and trained.
The thought of fathering children in that place and then abandoning them was too much for me to stomach. Active aromium has always made me crave sex like a junkie craves a hit, but I never gave in until Briar.
I mentally map as many details of the base as I can. It’s so perfectly maintained that it feels sterile. The landscapers tending to the grounds remind me of Kira. Almost robotic. It’s eerie.
Guards open iron gates as we approach a large, nondescript white building. The driver drops us off in front of wide steeldouble doors. I clock the heavy metal bar on the inside of the building that could be used to bar the entrance closed.
The interior is the same superclean, forgettable white as the rest of the buildings here. Ingrid leaves Tyrone and me behind in the lobby as she goes to talk to someone behind a desk. Then she motions us to join her.
“I think you’re going to like this, Commander Wells,” she says.
I fake a smile, knowing whatever it is, I’m definitely going to hate it.
We walk into a courtyard that’s enclosed by the building. It’s about the size of a football field, with a track around the perimeter, basketball and tennis courts, and landscaping. Kids and young adults are clustered in small groups. Some are running and others are playing basketball, but most are just talking and laughing.
It kind of seems like recess at a private school. I never would have guessed all these young people were on this island, where everything is ordered and precise.
“We’re about five minutes away from some serious rain,” Tyrone says, looking up at the gray sky.
I follow his gaze. “Yep. We usually get at least one afternoon shower a day.”
I wasn’t paying attention to the two people walking over to us. When Ingrid clears her throat and I look over at them, there’s a uniformed guard and ...
Holy fucking shit. My jaw dislodges and air lodges in my throat.
It’sme. My body, my face, my hair. He’s wearing different clothes than I am, but other than that, I’m looking at a mirror image of myself.
22
“I’ve just been briefed on the decline in fertility rates, and the numbers are alarming. If you don’t have at least one mistress, find one. We need to build our population, and it’s going to take more than one baby a year from your wives.” - Excerpt from a message from New America President Soren Whitman to all military officers
Briar
This feels like a trap.
Pax stands at our aromium switch point, the patch of dirt where we use our handheld device to switch aromium on as we’re leaving camp and off when we’re returning. It’s about a half-mile from camp, which is the closest someone with active aromium can get to our shield without feeling its side effects—headache, dizziness, and nausea.
“This fucker looks ready to die,” Nova says darkly, drawing the hunting knife sheathed at her waist.
Pax doesn’t even react. I hardly even recognize the apparently unarmed man standing there. He’s shirtless, his exposed skin covered in dark ash and tiny cuts. Both of his arms and hands are bright red and nearly covered with large, weeping blisters.
Nova is understandably furious over what the Tiders did to Ellison, but I can’t stand to see another person die—not after the devastation we all just experienced.
“Put the knife away,” I say softly.
“No fucking way.”
“Nova.” I look at her sharply. “We’ve got cover. Put it away. We don’t murder people in cold blood.”
She narrows her dark eyes for a split second before sliding the knife back into its sheath.
Niran and Amira are hiding in the jungle behind us, Niran with a gun and Amira with her bow and arrow. One wrong move by Pax, and they’ll use their weapons.
“You don’t look much better than me,” Pax says, his tone flat and his eyes vacant.
