The scorch marks in my eyes are beginning to fade, but blue dots, like ink stains, still drift across my vision and my ears won’t stop ringing. My head and my shoulder throb from where I was hit. Chiu has a bruise on his lip and stares sullenly into space. Farah looks unharmed but her face is stony.
We’re in a lab off the main corridor. Four rows of blue-topped Formica workbenches stretch its length, strewn with papers, racks, sample bottles and white-panelled machines. We’re sitting on office chairs, lined up in a row along the workbench, while the one who hit me – Marcus, I think – hovers over us, guarding us with his hockey stick close at hand.
Now that he’s taken off his hockey gear, I can see that he’s in his late twenties. A broad, bland face and a mop of wavy blond hair. Something about his style and his mannerisms makes me think of the posh kids who used to go to the private school on the opposite side of town. He looks anxious – more anxious than he should be, given that we’re kids and he has the hockey stick.
The far side of the lab has been partitioned off by a glass wall and behind it there are seven folding beds arranged in two neat rows.
Seven?
There are four people here. So there must be more of them.
Farah catches my eye and flicks her head towards the door. It also has a glass panel and on the far side of it we can see the other three who jumped us. The older man who yelled at Marcus earlier is talking. Late fifties, I guess. He has tight, wiry black hair, an untidy beard and a crumpled suit beneath a white lab coat. He seems agitated, pressing the blade of one hand repeatedly into the palm of the other as he talks. The man listening to him is tall and thin, Indian or Pakistani I guess, slouched against the wall with his arms folded. The third is a woman, young like Marcus. She has a stern, gaunt face, framed by long hair that’s been dyed pure white.
They’re obviously discussing us, deciding what to do with us. I feel the knife in my back pocket, pressing against my leg. All that and they didn’t even check us for weapons. I shift my weight experimentally, gauging how quickly I could get to the knife if I had to.
At last, they file in. Scientists, I decide, from the lab coat the older one wears. He has a name tag pinned to his lapel that reads: PROF. BENEDICT BROWNSTEIN. He must be the one in charge. My brain puts the pieces together. They must work in this lab. But what are they all doing here? In the Stillness?
“You’re trespassing,” Professor Brownstein says abruptly.
“We’re sorry,” Farah says. “We’ll go.”
She starts to stand, but the other man holds his ground, blocking her path.
“What are you doing here?” the woman asks.
Farah does a good job of looking bewildered. “We wanted somewhere to rest. Please – we didn’t think anyone would be here.”
The woman and the older man look at each other.
“Benedict?” the woman says.
Professor Brownstein – Benedict – frowns suspiciously at us. “You expect us to believe you just blundered in here by chance?”
Farah nods. “Yes, we—”
“We’re looking for the machine,” Chiu interrupts.
Farah clenches her teeth in irritation. The others look from one to the other in befuddled silence. “What machine?” Benedict says at last.
Chiu fishes in his back pocket and pulls out the folded sheets of paper he tore from his journal before we left. He hands them to Benedict. The others cluster around him to read. I watch their eyes scanning the words. Then the woman takes a step back, her hand rising to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock.
“Devon made it?” she murmurs, a weak, hopeful smile flickering on her face. “He made it!”
“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions, Abi,” Benedict warns.
“But it has to be him, right?” Marcus says. “ ‘The team successfully manipulated the cytoelectric activity of a coma patient … restoring them to wakefulness.’ That’s him. Devon. Abi’s right.”
“What do you think, Vikram?” the woman named Abi says.
The man named Vikram shrugs, his eyes still scanning the pages. “It’s possible…”
“It has to be him,” Abi insists. “It worked.”
A tense silence. They fall back to reading, muttering, pointing out passages to each other. Chiu was right, I think. Something important is happening here and these people are a part of it.
“Where did you get this?” Vikram says at last, looking up at Chiu.
“We were in a hospital when we first arrived,” Chiu says. “I found it in the library.”
“What does it mean?” Abi asks.
“It means they went ahead and published without us,” Vikram says bitterly.
“Why would they do that?”
“Look at the date,” Marcus says. “And they’ve used our names. We’re all co-authors.”
“Oh, the damn fools,” Benedict says. “They’re trying to keep up the cover story.”
“Oh god—” Abi sits heavily, her face pale.
“Excuse me?” Chiu says, interjecting. “Who’s Devon?”
The others look at us like they’d forgotten we were there. Abi offers us a weak smile. “Devon Wang is one of our colleagues,” she says.
“Don’t tell them too much,” Vikram interrupts her. “It could be a set-up.”
Abi gives an exasperated sigh. “They’re kids, Vik.”
