Biome Page 3

  What was I thinking about?

  “She isn’t feeling well,” Chloe explains. “Bad headache.”

  “Four hundred milligrams?” asks Kellen, one of the other medical cadets. He smiles at me sympathetically, his white teeth almost glowing against the charcoal black of his skin.

  “I’ll get it,” says Noah. He ducks down one of the med aisles and returns with two cups, one of water, the other with two pink pills at the bottom. I put the capsules on my tongue, swish twice, and swallow. The water makes me feel a little better. But only a little.

  “Don’t forget to sign,” Kellen tells me. He slumps into a chair, locking fingers behind his shaved head. “How about you, Chloe? Nervous about First Expedition?”

  A holographic sheet appears on the counter as I tap it.

  “Oh, I guess,” Chloe says timidly. Then her gaze flits to Noah. “Are you?”

  “A little.”

  “He’s afraid it might not be like Earth,” I say.

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. Not so much for Noah’s sake, but for mine. Chloe and Kellen are staring at me, waiting for an explanation. But the last thing I want is to discuss First Expedition again, or why Noah was sharing his fears with me in the Fitness Center.

  I look at him, expecting to find hurt or anger in his gaze for so freely sharing his confided thoughts. But he only seems confused.

  “We talked about it yesterday,” I tell him. “Remember?”

  “No, we didn’t,” he says as his face begins to redden. Why is he trying to deny it? Is he afraid Kellen will make fun of him?

  “Maybe it was a dream you had,” Chloe suggests.

  “Sure,” I say flatly. Whatever game he’s playing, I don’t have the mental energy to go along with it. I scribble my finger over the projection and it disappears. “Come on, Chloe.” As I turn, the tapping in my head grows into a full-on pounding.

  Chloe almost has to trot to keep up with my brisk pace.

  “What was that about?”

  “Just Noah Hartmann being weird as usual,” I grumble.

  For a second she’s quiet. Then she asks hopefully, “You seem like you’re feeling better?”

  “So much,” I reply. I’ve only been up for twenty minutes and I’m having hallucinations, for real this time. Chloe doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm. “Wait, we’re going the wrong way.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  “The airlock is that way.”

  “It’s Monday, Liz,” Chloe says patiently. “We’re going to Group, like normal.”

  I try to connect the name to something that matters, and it comes to me: Doctor Meng’s lectures on history and art. Two things that mean absolutely nothing to cadets who live on Mars. My stride slows considerably.

  “Either I really am dreaming, or you need to find a calendar. We’ve got First Expedition today. It’s the only thing I’ve been hearing about all week.”

  “It’s next week,” Chloe assures me. “I wonder if you have a fever?” She puts a hand to my forehead. “Or maybe you’re just nervous—”

  “I’m not.”

  “Okay, well then a fever.”

  “Maybe,” I concede, pushing her hand away. “I do feel nauseous.”

  “Do you think you might throw up?”

  “I will if I have to listen to one of Meng’s talks.”

  Chloe smiles and grabs my arm, pulling me down the hall.

  Only medical cadets like Noah and Kellen are on duty during mandatory functions such as Group. As a result, the corridors are empty. We take the Wheel, the circular hall at the center of the colony. It links the various domes without passing through the giant biomes, which makes it the quickest way to get around. Our footsteps echo off sterile, polished surfaces that gleam like fresh-blown glass.

  In total, there are five biomes on our colony. And truthfully, Chloe and I are fortunate to be assigned to one of the more temperate climates. Other cadets, like those who tend the Arid and Coastal Desert Biome, spend their days roasting in a chalky bubble.

  Back when we arrived on Mars, the psychologists decided it would be a good idea for us to name our dome subset, to help us “feel more at home.” My fellow cadets named us Scrubs, in honor of the small, scrubby bushes that we never stop trimming.

  A few of us wanted to be called Pyros, because back on Earth, controlled fires were often used to renew ecosystems like ours. And really, after a few months of fighting the relentless plants, turning a few of them into kindling starts to sound like a pretty nice idea.

  But you’ve got to be careful with stuff like this. Take the cadets from the Grassland and Flora Biome, for example. They call themselves Clovers because they were so “lucky” to get picked for the most pleasant habitat on the colony.

  Everyone just calls them grassholes.

  As we exit the Wheel, Chloe leads me through another airtight portal and into a smaller dome. This is our theater. Arranged in a tiered semicircle, the seats face a table at the front of the room, upon which is a giant lens. It looks like a deconstructed telescope, gazing upward.

  For some reason, it’s always freezing in here.

  Meng has already begun his lecture. A holographic image floats above the iris: a satellite with a white dish and feeble metal arms. Every seat is filled except for two. One on either side of Terra Donahue.

  I’d officially like to nominate this as my worst day on Mars.

  “Good morning, cadets,” says Doctor Meng with a hint of annoyance. “So glad you could join us.”

  Not another word is said as I slip into the seat nearest the aisle, allowing Chloe to pass ahead of me. I would usually be self-conscious about everyone’s staring, but at the moment I’m too irritated—and miserable—to care.

  “Where was I?” Meng asks. “Ah yes, the probe.” He walks around the desk in a clipped circle, as if he’s marching. He taps a button and the image rotates slowly. “Voyager 1 is another example of what I’m talking about. Like all its brother probes, it carries a gold-plated disc. These discs contain audio and visual samples of our race, like the collective memories of humanity. Poetic, isn’t it? Some of you must have questions. Come, don’t be shy. Daniel?”

  Near the front, a cadet stirs.

  “What kinds of memories?” he ventures, almost managing to sound interested.

  “Sounds, such as songs or a baby’s cry. Various languages. If a probe were to encounter an intelligent life form, or if humanity ceased to exist, these discs would carry on the essence of our race.” He turns his attention back to the translucent model of the antiquated probe. “In that way, our biomes perform a similar function. They preserve the plant life of Earth for generations to come, here on Mars.”

  Terra nudges me sharply with her elbow.

  “You slept late,” she whispers, a hiss.

  I clench my teeth but succeed in holding my tongue—mostly because my head is still too muddled to produce an adequate comeback. When I don’t rise to her bait, Terra shifts her attention onto Chloe.

  “Did you hear about Doctor Atkinson?”

  It’s almost hard to watch Chloe try to decide what to do. Talking during the lecture would mean breaking the rules. But ignoring Terra would mean hurting her feelings. After squirming for a few seconds, she hesitantly shakes her head.

  “He attacked Doctor Conrad,” Terra informs her.

  “What?” Chloe is astonished. “Why?”

  “No one knows. But this morning Conrad had a black eye, and no one’s seen Atkinson. They probably had to lock him in the Helix, if he’s dangerous.”

  “But… I don’t understand. Why—?”

  “Excuse me,” Meng interrupts. His eyebrows scrunch over his glasses like great black caterpillars. “Are you listening, Miss Donahue?”

  “Yes,” Terra replies quickly. Everyone turns to stare again, but this time not at me. I feel slightly gratified.

  “Well, since I’ve got your attention, why don’t you tell us all why we bother s
tudying the past in the first place?”

  “Because… we can learn from it.”

  Meng’s face pinches in what could be an attempt at a smile.

  “Partly true. What I was saying is, we study the past because we tell ourselves stories. What does that mean? It means everyone has their own version of things, yes? We see things our way, from our own perspective. History is no exception. However, when we can agree on the facts and set them in a permanent record, like on Voyager 1, we can all see things the same. That’s a beautiful idea, because it unites us as a single life force. Without that unity, humanity could never have created even half of its wonders—the pyramids, the Internet, or a colony on Mars. The human spirit is indomitable when it sets itself toward a common goal.”

  The cadets are all nodding along, but my headache is growing worse and the motion makes me queasy. Meng begins changing dials on the holographic imager, pulling up probes and satellites. I can’t seem to focus on his words. More than anything, I just want to lie down and close my eyes.

  I’m drawn out of my daze by a beeping coming from the overhead. It sounds like an alarm. Meng seems confused, and has just opened his mouth when the lens switches, projecting the image of a man.

  The way the light shapes the figure, it turns his cropped white hair into a kind of halo, reflecting in his round spectacles, glistening along the oxygen tubes that run around his ears and into his nose.

  He looks familiar. But not in a déjà vu way. I seem to remember speaking to him before. In a cold room across a metal table, my wrists tied down, his gentle voice asking question after question, telling me I couldn’t leave until we’d finished, keeping me from water, from food, from rest, until he had the answers he wanted.

  It occurs to me that maybe I really am hallucinating.

  “Doctor Dosset,” Meng says. “Um, good morning.”

  “Hello, Charles,” the man called Dosset replies.

  The image smiles. His posture is stately, paternal, even harmless. A little like Shiffrin. But it’s his eyes that give him away—they’re as sharp and exacting as chips of ice. Just the sight of them sends tiny spiders of dread skittering down my spine.

  “I apologize for interrupting,” he says to Meng. “But I have an announcement to make. It should only take a minute.”

  “Of course.”

  Anyone who dared whisper or fidget while Meng was talking has now grown very still. I try to keep calm, but my pulse is racing so fast, I actually wonder if Terra can hear it beside me. Dosset seems to enjoy the quiet. Why am I so afraid of him?

  “News travels quickly,” he says. “Especially on such a small colony. No doubt, many of you have noticed Doctor Conrad’s injury.”

  When no one speaks, he goes on.

  “It seems that Doctor Atkinson contracted a fever last night and became delirious. When a number of his fellow doctors attempted to help him, Doctor Conrad was inadvertently harmed. I assure you, there is nothing to worry about. Doctor Atkinson is resting in his sleeping pod and his fever is now under control.”

  He’s lying.

  That’s my first reaction. I don’t know why, but it is. Suddenly my headache spikes, acid screeching on my brain. I have an overwhelming urge to dig my fingernails into my thighs, or to scream, or to run out of the room.

  What’s happening to me? Where are these thoughts coming from?

  “For now, the illness is quarantined,” Dosset is saying. “But in close quarters, sickness is among our greatest threats. If anyone presents with symptoms of delirium or confusion, please report them to a doctor at once. They will need immediate medical assistance.”

  I stare at the chair-back in front of me, smooth plastic with a rubber seam, trying to keep my bearings. At the edge of my vision, I can see Chloe watching me. I know what she must be thinking, that I’ve been delirious and confused all morning.

  But it isn’t a fever. And even if it is, I’d rather go for a walk in a Martian hailstorm than let Dosset anywhere near me.

  “Thank you for your attention,” the hologram says.

  Smiling at us all, he reminds me of a wolf. I fight off a shiver as the image vanishes, reverting to a model of a spacecraft.

  I don’t even hear what Meng says after that. I just focus on breathing, on keeping the headache under control, wondering if it will split my skull open.

  As soon as the other cadets begin moving, I’m out of my seat and through the door, stumbling half-blind toward my pod. When I get there, it takes four tries to get the access code right. The whole world seems skewed somehow, as if light is coming from all the wrong angles.

  At last I stumble in, and the darkness envelops me like a cold compress. In my head I can see him, Dosset, sitting in a chair in just the same way he did on the hologram, asking me questions. He holds a webbed sort of crown, white pearly electrodes spread across a thin mesh. He calls it a Stitch. Says it won’t hurt.

  I ask him what it’s for as Shiffrin enters the room. As he slides the Stitch over my head, she looks as nervous as I feel. One of those tablets is in Dosset’s hands. He taps away. What is he doing? Is he scanning my brain?

  There’s a pinch in my scalp, but it’s deeper than that—it’s inside my head, and I gasp in surprise and stumble, my knee crashing into the plastic end table as I’m drawn out of the memory, back into my sleeping pod. I fall, taking the lamp down with me. It thuds on the floor. I remember more snaps across my temple, bees stinging the surface of my brain, buzzing angrily. It’s so vivid, it feels as if I’m reliving it.

  As if I’m losing my mind.

  Tap, tap.

  I sit up, panting, and push my hair off my forehead, damp with sweat. Is someone at the door? Or am I hearing the echo of Dosset’s fingers drumming along the tablet? Maybe he sensed my terror even through the hologram, the way a shark smells blood. He could be right outside my pod, holding the Stitch, his instrument of torture.

  Deep breaths. I take deep, slow breaths. Thinking back, I try to carefully recall what happened. Dosset asking me questions, taking notes, sending electric darts across my scalp. I become incoherent. Shiffrin suggests they give me a painkiller, but Dosset wants me conscious. When they’re finally done, she presses an inoculator into my arm, a drug she calls Verced. Says it will calm me. That it will help me forget.

  The room grows fuzzy, collapsing in a whirlpool as the drug takes effect. I wake up the next morning feeling groggy and disoriented.

  But that’s it.

  “I didn’t remember,” I whisper aloud.

  How is that possible? How could I forget something so traumatic? I cast back for more memories. It didn’t happen just once. I can remember another instance—was it only a week later?—of Shiffrin asking me questions. Putting the Stitch on my head, giving me a dose of Verced. In the morning I wake without remembering what happened. Without remembering a lot of things. And the next week, she does it again.

  So I begin to understand. They weren’t scanning my brain. They were changing it. Erasing memories. The realization makes me cold and weak. And then, slowly, the questions emerge from the tumultuous waves of my mind.

  Why would they do something like this? What could they possibly gain?

  As I sink back to the floor, the numbness spreads over me. I can’t bring myself to accept it. There’s no reason good enough, no plausible explanation. Maybe I am sick. Yet the memories are there, adrift in the painful throbbing.

  Another tap, tap, tap. This time, clearly a knock on my door.

  I try to get a grip. Most likely it’s just Chloe. But what if it’s Shiffrin or one of the other doctors? I straighten my jumpsuit and tuck my hair behind my ears. Whatever happens next, I have to pretend that I don’t know a thing. That everything is fine.

  Tap, tap.

  “Just a second.” My voice is hoarse. I force myself to take a few more deep breaths. Then I open the door.

  Chapter Three

  “Are you okay? I heard a crash and I thought—”

  Before she
can finish, I pull Chloe inside and shut the door. I swiftly press my ear to the reinforced plastic. It hums like a tuning fork with the vibration of the oxygenators, the air purifiers, the myriad machines that run the colony. After a moment, feet shuffle by. Then it’s quiet. Little by little, I begin to relax. They must not realize what I know.

  Yet.

  But what do I know? That’s the burning question still bouncing around inside my head. That, and about twenty million others. Such as where these memories came from, and whether or not they’re real. My brain feels raw, like fresh rug burn.

  “Lizzy,” Chloe speaks deliberately, adjusting her glasses in the dark. “What’s going on? You’re starting to scare me.”

  “I’m starting to scare me too,” I say.

  She gives me a funny look.

  “What Doctor Dosset said, about that virus…” She gently touches my arm. “I think you might have it. And if you do, we need to tell Doctor Meng or—”

  “No!” I blurt out more loudly than I’d intended. I cast a glance back at the door, feeling as if it might burst open at any second. I lower my voice. “No. I can’t talk to him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he… can’t help me.”

  Chloe gives me a sympathetic smile, her teeth neon green in the gloomy lights. Like she thinks I’m completely insane. Sweaty, unshowered, hiding in a dark room. Yeah, I probably look like a raving lunatic.

  I kind of feel like one too.

  “You were just saying how awful you felt two hours ago,” Chloe says delicately. “Doctor Dosset said that Doctor Atkinson had a fever—”

  “Which I don’t.”

  “—that he was delusional—”

  “Which I’m not.”

  “—and that he was confused. Don’t take this the wrong way, Liz, but you’ve been acting kind of, um, out of control all day.”

  “Well, it’s been kind of an out-of-control day.”

  There are so many things I want to tell her, but it’s as if they’re all stuck. I can’t begin to explain these memories or where they came from. It suddenly occurs to me that, if the doctors can erase what we recall, they might be able to give it back as well. But why would Shiffrin just up and give my memories back after erasing them over and over? I press the side of my head with a fist to stop the spinning.