Biome Read online

The others take a moment longer.

  “How do we get him back?” Noah finally asks. “We need a plan.”

  “I think that might have to wait until tomorrow,” murmurs Chloe.

  It’s true. Green letters on the clock read ten minutes until end-of-day Briefing. After that, the others will have to meet with their psychologists and return to their pods for power down.

  All at once a kind of burning terror settles in my throat, almost choking me. I’ve just entrusted myself to four people… which is four more than usual.

  I look at Terra and see that she’s still watching me. Again she’s got that look in her eye. The one I always get from her when she’s thinking something she isn’t saying. I can’t tell if I’ve won her over or not. But in about an hour she’ll have the perfect opportunity to get her revenge, to beat me. All she has to do is tell her therapist where I am.

  I force myself to hold her gaze.

  “So, are you going to help us?” I ask.

  A coy smile plays at the corners of her mouth, still slightly red from the tape.

  “Well, I don’t really have a choice, do I?” When I glare at her, her smile widens. “I’m kidding, Lizzy, god. Of course I’m in.”

  “Fine, you’re in,” I mutter.

  “It doesn’t look like it much,” Romie says. “I mean, she’s still restrained to the chair.”

  Stiffly I nod. If we’re going to be allies, I have to at least act like I trust her. I kneel and unbind her ankles and wrists, keenly aware of how vulnerable I am in this position. The defibrillator patches come off last. I retract the wires with the push of a button.

  “I hope those weren’t too tight,” I say awkwardly.

  No reply. Instead she stands, cracks her neck, and begins massaging the imprint of the rope on her skin.

  “The Sick Bay should have something for those burns on your arms,” Chloe says, as if sensing the tension between us. “Right, Noah?”

  “Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

  Terra eyes them up.

  “Sure,” she says. A one-word answer.

  For some reason, I recall what Meng said in Group before this all started. About how if we work together, humanity can accomplish anything. The question is, will we be able to put aside our differences long enough to get Atkinson back?

  I honestly doubt it.

  “Lizzy, why don’t you spend tomorrow with me in the Clover domes?” Romie asks. “I want to hear about the inventions I made up that I no longer remember.” He grins, somehow reminding me of a boy in a sandbox. “Maybe one of them will assist with our rescue attempt. Then tomorrow night we can all meet in my quarters to discuss our plan in detail.”

  “Okay,” I say, surprised. And also grateful for his support. At least he’s on my side.

  “We’re sure we want to do this, right?” Chloe suddenly asks. “I mean, I know they’ve been altering our memories, but it doesn’t seem like they’re out to hurt us. Maybe whatever they’re hiding… maybe we’re better off not knowing.”

  “But is that something you want them to decide?” I ask.

  “Well, no.”

  “If we fail it won’t matter much,” says Noah. “They’ll just erase our memories and we’ll forget we even had this conversation.”

  “Or we’ll become Atkinson’s new neighbors,” Terra replies.

  I don’t bother arguing. Because as everyone shuffles out of the room, I have a feeling Terra’s right. Only, I don’t think they’ll make us all disappear. Because in order to change my mind, they’d have to erase everything. For the others, the doctors can make it all go back to normal by erasing only a single person.

  Me.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, after Noah goes to breakfast, I sit on his bed and prepare myself for whatever the day will bring.

  My back aches from sleeping on the floor again, even though he offered me the mattress. As I drifted off, I could see his golden eyes watching me in the near-darkness. Almost as if they were glowing. I guess in some weird way it was nice to know that someone was looking out for me.

  But he still makes me uncomfortable.

  Since that first night I’ve been careful not to stumble into any of his memories. It just feels wrong, like I’m reading his diary or something. And knowing how Chloe feels… it’s a big mess.

  At the moment we have much bigger problems than hormones and high school drama.

  While I wait for Romie to arrive, I wrap myself up in a blanket and make a meal out of what rations Chloe smuggled to me the night before.

  Cadets aren’t allowed to take food out of the kitchens, but the doctors aren’t exactly fascists about it. You’ve just got to be sneaky.

  It seems Chloe is sneakier than I realized, because she somehow managed to pocket three tangerines and a few handfuls of almonds and raisins, plus two vegan banana pancakes rolled up and tucked into her sleeve. The pancakes are cold and a little dry, but my appetite has long outweighed my pickiness.

  At this point I think I’d be willing to lick rice pudding off the floor.

  It’s funny, thinking back to when I first learned about the mission to Mars. Never in a million years would I have expected what it is… what it’s now become.

  When it began, there were candidates from all over the country. The idea was to put brilliant people on the planet to monitor and care for the biomes while Mars was gradually terraformed.

  But when training began, a study on interplanetary travel made an unexpected finding: teenagers were better equipped to endure the rigors of cryosleep than adults. They were also better at handling the pressures of living inside the colony.

  Test domes were built on Earth to further explore the idea, and after a three-month trial, it was decided that young astronauts were a healthier choice for the prolonged, isolated journey. Soon, students were recruited, a five-to-one ratio of cadets to adults.

  At my private school alone there were dozens of applicants. Some came from families like Terra’s, with parents who wanted their children to excel for their own benefit. For me it was different. My parents were hardly involved. After the divorce, I lost myself in academics because I wanted to get lost.

  I guess my running was a piece of that—a world I could get lost in. Coming to Mars was just the next logical step in that direction.

  So now we’re here doing the grunt work. Shepherded from one duty to the next while doctors take notes. Notes that go to who—Dosset?

  The thought makes my blood boil. It also terrifies me. If all my memories are just floating around out there, does that mean Dosset knows everything about me? About all of us?

  It must. After all, he felt he knew me well enough to predict my actions that first night in the airlock—even if he did get it wrong.

  I think about how Conrad called me predictable in the biome, and how Hitch was able to head Caleb off before a fight could even ensue. Does having access to our personal memories mean Dosset knows us so well that he can anticipate what we’ll do next?

  And if it does, and I’ve got those same memories… do I have the power to draw the same conclusions?

  That could explain why the doctors asked Chloe if I’d made any “predictions.”

  So early in the morning, this is a lot to take in. But there’s another question still waiting to be asked. One I’ve already skirted, and likely the most important question of all: Do I have any of the doctors’ memories?

  I’ve suspected all along that I don’t. None have surfaced, anyway. Yet if I do have them, that insight could make the difference between overcoming Dosset or not.

  Since Shiffrin is the doctor I’m most familiar with, I feel that she’s my best candidate. Of course, I’ll need the right trigger to bring her memories to mind. But as I think about it, I realize that I don’t really know anything about her. Not her personal life.

  With Noah, I had myself as a point of reference. With Shiffrin, every conversation we’ve ever had revolved around my week. Nothing about her.

&n
bsp; I decide on a different approach. One by one, I recall the items from her Wellness Suite. The warm, comforting scent of mandarin from the oil diffuser. The snow globe on her desk from Juneau, Alaska. The reading glasses that were always pushed up into her tangled hair—

  Nothing comes to mind.

  “Didn’t think so,” I mutter. Why would the doctors have brainwashed each other? It just doesn’t make sense.

  And yet I still have this feeling tingling in the back of my head. As if something is asking to be brought forward. Maybe I should try another doctor.

  Why not Atkinson? He’s the one who gave me the memories, after all.

  However, this will be even harder. Atkinson is little more than a stranger. The only thing I know about him is that he was assigned to the Clover cadets. I can’t even picture his face. What had Dosset called him?

  Marcus.

  With the name, a tiny memory pops. It’s shadowy and vague, as if I’m viewing it through smeary glass. We must have landed only a day or two ago, because I find myself standing in cryonics, watching as Dosset oversees the waking of the cadets: the crack and hiss of the cryobeds as they split like carbon eggshells; the pale bodies held in vacuum-sealed bags, submerged in azure blue liquid; the tubes in their noses; the corpse-like stillness.

  Dosset begins talking about how this generation will carry on the legacy of humankind as we span the cosmic canvas, and Atkinson feels a swell of pride—and then I’m right back in Noah’s pod, watching a beam of light inch across the wall.

  And, yes. My headache is back with a vengeance.

  Still, I can’t help but smile. This is some kind of clue. Maybe about what Atkinson was after. Certainly about what Dosset is capable of doing.

  If I’ve got memories from one doctor, I probably have memories from others—and if I can recall those memories, I might be able to use them to my advantage. Just as long as I don’t split my skull in half while doing it.

  Since my head has again become a drop forge, I decide to lie down for a while. But by ten hundred hours, the rest of the colony is attending Group and I’m beginning to grow restless.

  Is Dosset looking for me? I wonder. By now he must assume I fell into a crater. That, or he realizes I never left the colony in the first place. Maybe the doctors are already patrolling the halls, checking rooms.

  All it would take is a simple sweep of the pods, and I’d be found right here, huddled under a blanket, eating raisins.

  The endless thinking isn’t helping my headache. I have to stop this. Honestly, I could probably use a therapist right about now.

  Just, you know, not the brainwashing type.

  I do some stretches until ten thirty. Stare at the wall until eleven. Go through Noah’s drawers and refold his shirts, even though I hate doing laundry. Then I try to braid my hair like Chloe’s and then unbraid it because it’s no good. Hum to myself. Shoot surgical masks across the room by their straps.

  By thirteen hundred hours, I’m hungry again and considering doing strides down the hallway. Then there’s a knock on the door. I pull it open so fast that Romie actually flinches.

  “Oh,” he says.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes.” He examines the way I’ve tucked my hair up under my hat and how the surgical mask hides my face. “Is that how you’ve been getting around? The cap is suitable. But I don’t think the mask is necessary.”

  “But what about cameras?” I ask in surprise. “And the other cadets?”

  He adjusts his glasses and smooths his dark hair to one side.

  “Facial recognition software isn’t as good as you think. Really, it comes down to vantage point and face occlusion. By wearing the hat and surgical mask, yes, you are occluding much of your face, which would throw off a camera. After all, cameras need to glimpse a minimum of fifty percent to make a positive identification. But what happens when you pass a suspicious doctor? You’re going to look very peculiar.”

  I snap the surgical mask off an ear, frowning. “Better peculiar than like myself, right? All it takes is one person to recognize me and we’re toast.”

  “True,” Romie admits. “But I’ll wager the mask will stand out even more than your facial features. To our benefit, whoever designed our surveillance system did a poor job. Because the cameras are so high on the wall, they don’t get a good look unless you’re facing straight ahead. By simply tilting your head at the proper angle, you should be able to elude them.”

  For talking so much more than Noah, he consistently makes less sense. I find myself wishing that Noah were here now to translate.

  “So you’re saying…?”

  “Just look at your feet,” he says.

  “My feet.”

  “It’s as good as a mask but less conspicuous.”

  I can’t tell if he’s joking.

  “Uh, no offense, Romie, but aren’t we taking a big risk, just walking around without a disguise? I mean, shouldn’t we be more cautious?”

  “According to Noah, the priority is for us to remain unpredictable, correct?” He smiles. “This is unpredictable. It’s the hiding-in-plain-sight strategy.”

  I take a deep breath to soothe my fraying nerves. He could be right. But what if he’s wrong? This whole “trusting others” thing is going to be even harder than I’d imagined.

  We take to the halls. I feel almost naked, strolling around like this. But I keep a steady gaze on my shoelaces as Romie instructed, and no doctors come running. And then it hits me. No doctors have come running. That must mean Terra didn’t turn me in after all.

  Maybe there really is a chance we’ll pull this thing off.

  The corridors are predictably thick with shoulders and elbows. As cadets hurry past, going about their daily duties, I again hear voices that I recognize. But this time something different happens.

  Rather than simply recalling details about the cadets, I begin to remember the way they move. I can’t describe it any other way. As Julia Mazer passes on my right, talking briskly about a forecasted hailstorm, I instinctively recall the way she cracks her knuckles when she’s lost in thought. How Lars Bone will bob his head as he walks, or how Valeska Jones will often take short, timid steps.

  Even being hunched over like this, eyes on the floor, my loping posture reminds me of Noah’s diffident stride.

  It’s almost as if, little by little, I’m learning the words to their body language.

  “You see?” Romie asks.

  “See?” I repeat thickly. Lost in my recollections, I hardly notice the headache until it begins to make me nauseous again. “I’m staring at the floor, Romie.”

  “We just passed Doctor Samar. He didn’t notice you.”

  I glance up at him then swiftly remember to keep my head down. I don’t know what to say. Belatedly I realize I’ve begun cracking my knuckles and stop myself at once.

  “That’s… that’s great, Romie,” I mutter.

  This Memory Bank thing is getting weirder all the time.

  Still avoiding the tight security of the Helix, we make the trek across the desert habitat. I don’t say much, mostly because my throat is sucked dry as a bone before we’re even halfway across. As if immune to the heat, Romie whistles to himself as we wind down the switchbacks into the valley, stopping here and there to remark about the plant growth.

  “It’s the first thing that tipped me off that you were telling the truth,” he says. “Even with genetic enhancements, the vegetation is too advanced to make rational sense. We must have been here for many months for it to be this far developed. Is that right?”

  “Yes. Months at least,” I tell him, squinting. “I guess it could be as long as a year.”

  “Really?” He stoops to look at a prickly bush. “Astonishing!”

  Has it really been that long? According to the memories, I guess it has. And if that’s true, we’ve missed a lot. Like my birthday. Could I really be eighteen?

  Carefully I sneak a look at the flourishing cacti around us and realize how obvious i
t is. Why didn’t any of us notice how quickly the plants were growing? I guess we just didn’t think about it in that way.

  So the question is—what else haven’t we noticed?

  “The terraforming could nearly be halfway finished,” Romie concludes, whistling again.

  Once we’re inside the Clover domes, he leads me to the Workshop. Each dome subset has its own specialty. Scrubs have the Fitness Center. Xeris have the Sick Bay. Polars have the Wellness Suites, and Bolos have the Laboratory. Here in the Clover domes, they handle mechanical repairs and most of the 3D printing—really, all of it but the food.

  This is where my running shoes come from, along with most of my tools and clothing.

  “What is all this stuff?” I ask quietly as Romie leads me through a maze of tables, tools, and boxes, all made of shiny chrome or white plastic. Cadets are busy fiddling with various contraptions—coating pipes with sealant, soldering circuit boards, typing on flat, holographic keyboards projected from a glass iris.

  “Anything and everything,” he replies over the hum of their work. “Today we’re preparing for maintenance on one of the water reclaimers. But our supplies were dropped before we arrived on Mars. Essentially, NASA sent crates of whatever they thought we might need. All of them stored in here.”

  He hooks a thumb at row upon row of sleek boxes stacked on a network of shelves that nearly reaches the ceiling.

  “They had to plan for any possible scenario between our landing and the arrival of the next settlers,” he tells me. “Three and a half years is a relatively long time.”

  I’ve heard all this before, of course. The way I understand it, the process of terraforming Mars began long before I volunteered—even before Aster began her work.

  First, we had to find a way to kick-start the planet’s core, to create a geomagnetic layer that would fend off radiation from space. Then, we had to actually build the domes. That took years of sending materials and Mechs to assemble it all before we even left Earth. Cotton swabs, seeds, shower heads—anything we use on a regular basis had to be ready.

  I’ve heard cadets say we have enough extra materials to last up to five years, which is much longer than we need. The planet will be terraformed in three, and the next spacecraft will arrive four months after that.