Ultraxenopia (Project W. A. R. Book 1) Read online

  A hologram screen materializes above her head. She stares at the screen for a long moment, and I squint my eyes to read the jumbled words. But I can’t see them clearly.

  Her fingers tap a few more times against the desktop before she turns to face an odd bowl positioned beside her. It’s large and made of a steel-like metal, although it’s too far away for me to see inside of it. A part of me feels certain that it wasn’t there before, but then again, the drugs racing through my body are making it difficult to be sure of anything. It doesn't matter either way. All I can do is watch in muted horror as she pours the contents of one of the vials into the metal container.

  My heart pounds in anticipation as she clicks her fingers against the computer once again, waiting for something to happen. Anything that will indicate what the hell they want with me.

  Seconds pass, but it feels like an eternity. Sweat beads along my skin, drenching the thin papery gown that barely covers my body. My breaths reverberate in my ears, and I can feel the metal bands chafing against my exposed flesh, leaving it red and raw.

  I breathe in. A startled gasp escapes my lungs when the bowl unexpectedly lifts off the table—defying the very laws of gravity. It hangs motionless in the air for a brief moment, until gradually, its exterior changes. The metal twists on itself, forming a sphere and trapping the blood inside.

  Immediately, the sphere begins to spin, pulsing up and down as it rotates faster and faster. As it does, a strange code manifests on the screen behind it. Line after line of incomprehensible symbols. I try to make sense of them, but there’s nothing to make sense of. I might as well be looking at a foreign language.

  Yet, whatever the code says, it must be important. I can tell that by the look on the woman’s face. Her jaw is slightly dropped, and her lips are parted in such a way it’s as if she’s holding her breath.

  “Doctor,” she mutters. “You need to see this.”

  My eyebrows pull together as a feeling of trepidation arises within me.

  What is she seeing? What’s wrong with me?

  I try to swallow, but my mouth and throat have gone dry. The bright light hanging above me is making me nauseous, and I feel as if I might start retching at any moment.

  I pull against my restraints, hoping this time they might actually give. My teeth clench together as I struggle to get free, but just like before, nothing happens.

  I relax against the table with a loud grunt of exasperation. Taking a few quick breaths, I prepare myself to try again when I hear the faint sound of footsteps close beside me. My body goes rigid until I’m absolutely still—every part of me, except for my racing heart.

  Nervously, I glance up, and I can’t contain my shock when I see who those footsteps belong to.

  He’s young—no older than his early thirties, if that—and he’s tall, with light auburn-brown hair that’s been parted neatly to the side. Rectangular, thin-rimmed glasses frame perceptive gray eyes. Yet, despite appearing younger than every one of his colleagues, it’s obvious he holds a higher position than all of them.

  He places his hand on the desk, mere inches away from where the metal sphere continues to spin. After a moment, he leans forward. His eyes never blink as he stares at the screen. The woman looks up at him, her expression still twisted in disbelief. I watch her lips when they begin to move, and I strain my ears in response, desperate to hear what she’s saying to him.

  “Her blood type,” she whispers in a hushed voice to the man. “It’s . . . changing.”

  I may not know much about science, or anything medical having to do with the human body, but I know enough to be fairly certain that what she’s saying isn’t possible. Not naturally at least.

  I gape at the man, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even seem to react to this news. His eyes simply follow the code for a while, his fingers rubbing his chin as if deep in thought.

  When the process is finally complete, the sphere stops spinning and sinks back to the desktop, landing with a soft thud against the glass surface. Within seconds of touching down, the metal shifts until it’s once again nothing more than a silver bowl filled with blood.

  The man straightens up, but his hand remains planted on his chin. Everyone in the room watches him in silence, as if waiting for him to speak.

  Including me.

  “Fascinating,” is all he says.

  Without warning, he looks over at me, and my heart rate increases when his lips curl into a smile. For some reason, his expression is unnerving.

  He begins to move toward me, his footsteps echoing off the floor—the sound growing louder as the distance between us shrinks. His gaze never leaves mine.

  Stopping just in front of me, he flashes a kind smile. “Hello, Wynter,” he murmurs. “My name is Dr. Richter. I’ll be taking care of you.”

  Taking care of me?

  “Why am I here?” I breathe. My voice is shaky, and the dryness in my throat is apparent in each raspy word. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Shh, hush now,” he whispers. “All of your questions will be answered in time.”

  He smiles once again, only breaking eye contact with me to glance down at his hand. I follow his gaze, the fear re-emerging when I see him pull a syringe from the depths of his coat pocket. His eyes flash back to mine, and I know he can sense my fear as well as the piercing screams tightly lodged in my throat.

  “But for now,” he croons as he injects the syringe into one of the tubes in my right arm, “you must sleep.”

  He takes a step away from me, that disconcerting expression still plastered across his face. I try to say something, but I can barely get out a single word before I feel the effects of the liquid as it enters my system. It rushes through me like a cold chill.

  I want to fight against it, but it’s hopeless.

  As the drowsiness returns to pull me under yet again, the doctor’s smile is all I can see.

  WHEN I WAKE UP, I’M in another room I don’t recognize. However, unlike the room with all of those machines, this room is smaller and practically bare. The only objects I can see are a table positioned at the base of a single cot, a toilet, shower, and sink—all crammed closely together against the wall opposite the door. Everything is gray and metallic.

  Cold.

  Slowly, I try to sit up. My head is fuzzy—probably a side effect from whatever they injected me with before—and my back aches from the hard mattress beneath me. It creaks when I shift my weight. I scoot to the edge and plant my feet on the floor, but I don’t move any more than that for several minutes. My center of balance feels off, leaving me slightly nauseated. I take a few deep breaths in the hope that it will make the feeling pass.

  I lift my eyes to study the room while I wait. There aren’t any windows—just plain concrete walls with the exception of a single camera hanging in the far corner. A red light blinks on the side of the lens, and just like in the elevator at W. P. Headquarters, it’s as if I can feel the people here watching me. I can feel their penetrating gazes without even seeing their faces, especially the doctor I met before.

  Richter, he called himself.

  Carefully, I push myself up onto my feet. A wave of vertigo leaves me somewhat unsteady, but I charge through it, forcing my body over to the sink, where I splash some water onto my face. It’s refreshing and helps to take away the last of the nausea.

  I peer into the small mirror hanging above the metal basin. It’s immaculately clean, just like the rest of the room, but all I notice is the savage-looking girl staring back at me. She looks exhausted, sick even, and has heavy bags under her eyes. They’re dark like bruises, made darker by the unhealthy lack of color in her face.

  I close my eyes, so I don’t have to look at her any longer.

  After a moment, I turn my gaze to the corner of the mirror where I’m distracted by the reflection of a small pile of clothes folded on the bed behind me. I immediately walk over to them and run my fingertips across the fabric. Also gray. Also cold. At least they
’re an improvement over the unsightly hospital gown currently sticking to my body.

  Seeing the fresh clothes makes me feel even dirtier than I actually am. With nothing else to do, I decide to take a shower. However, my heart begins to race when I remember the camera hanging in the corner. The red light continues to blink, and I can’t help but wonder to what extent they intend to watch me.

  I let out a heavy sigh, coming to the disheartening conclusion that privacy most likely isn’t something I’ll be afforded while I’m here. Taking another deep breath, I choose to ignore it as best I can.

  Shrugging out of the thin gown, I let it fall to the floor as I step under the water. It’s lukewarm but feels good all the same. I embrace the sensation of it running over my skin, using my fingernails to scrape away the dried blood and sweat.

  The sound of the running water makes me feel at ease, almost allowing me to forget the reality of the situation. Then I’m reminded of where I am, and my thoughts once again focus on everything that’s happened.

  How long has it been since I was taken?

  It can’t have been that long ago. Then again, I have no way of actually knowing. I finally settle on assuming it’s only been a day or two, and I take comfort in that, hoping that maybe my stay here won’t be extended much longer.

  Deep down, I know my optimism is only a distraction from the truth. However long they plan to hold me here . . . wherever here is . . . I have a feeling it’ll be for a while.

  I grip the metal handle and turn it until the water shuts off. Reaching for the white towel hung neatly within arm’s reach, my hands wrap it around my body as I step out of the shower. The floor is cold against my exposed feet as I scurry over to the bed.

  In an effort to protect whatever modesty I have left, I keep the towel draped around me while I change into the fresh clothes. The pants are dark gray and comfortably loose, although a bit itchy, and the top is a lighter gray, which is clearly a few sizes too big for my body. At least they’re covering me, though.

  I towel dry my hair during the time it takes to walk back over to the mirror. I look somewhat better now, but in spite of the shower, those horrible bags still hang under my eyes. Shrugging it off, I place the towel across the sink and begin to comb my fingers through the damp strands of hair. The dark ends drip onto my shoulders while my bangs stick to my forehead, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances.

  Returning to the bed, I slump down onto the hard mattress. After a few minutes, a feeling of restlessness sets in. I lift my head to glance around the room, but there’s nothing to occupy my time except sleep. All too quickly, the thing I fear most is no longer uncertainty. It’s boredom.

  A groan rises in my throat when I glimpse the table at the end of the bed. For a split second, I thought I saw movement there. Shifting closer to investigate, I notice that the surface is completely computerized, and without thinking, I reach out my hand. When my fingers press against it, the screen flashes once before changing to reveal a menu, offering a multitude of choices ranging from food and drink to toiletries and assistance. It’s strange, especially considering my surroundings don’t exactly scream hospitality.

  I tap the icon for food and drink. There aren’t many options, and I decide to go for something bland in case my stomach acts up. As soon as I select what I want, the screen flashes again. An instant later, a panel in the ceiling above me opens.

  I reel back when a large robotic arm descends in front of me and places a tray across the table—presenting me with a meal that, although plain and minimal overall, looks like a feast to my famished stomach.

  The arm retracts into the ceiling as I begin to eat. I gorge on the food, no longer caring about the camera watching me.

  A feeling of reinvigoration rushes through me after eating, and for the first time since I woke up in this place, my mind actually seems clear. I take a moment to once again think back on everything that’s happened, wondering why exactly I’m being held here. Is it because of what happened during my placement exam? I thought so at first, but then I remember what that woman said about my blood type changing. This is about something else. Something more.

  It has to be.

  I stretch my legs before rising to my feet. My entire body feels uneasy, and my stomach is in knots. I turn in place, taking in everything about the room, but there’s nothing new to see. Just like there’s no way to escape, except through the single door in front of me, which I’d be willing to bet is locked from the outside.

  Curious, I approach it. My eyes scan across the flat surface. No latch. No handle. Nothing. Just a slab of material blocking my only way out of here.

  My heart jumps into my throat when I hear a series of beeps coming from the other side of the door, and I reflexively step back when it abruptly springs open.

  A middle-aged man with facial hair stands in the doorway. He’s wearing white clothes that are similar to mine and holds a large computerized tablet in his hands.

  “Dr. Richter would like a word with you,” he says in a monotone voice.

  He gives me the once over, and it vaguely occurs to me that he seems nervous. When I don’t say anything, he casually extends his hand toward the doorway.

  “Follow me, please,” he requests.

  Oddly enough, when I begin to move forward, he takes a step back. I hesitate as a feeling of suspicion arises within me, but he continues down the hallway without a second glance in my direction.

  Cautiously, I step out of the room. A heavy weight feels like it’s been lifted off my shoulders, but it’s soon replaced by an even heavier weight the longer we walk in silence. It doesn’t go unnoticed that the man keeps his distance from me. He only looks back when we reach our destination.

  My feet falter beneath me. I linger a few steps away from him as he enters a sequence of numbers into the keypad beside the door, causing the same sort of beeping I heard before. A little light turns green when the door in front of us opens.

  The man steps back from the open doorway and signals with a nod of his head for me to go inside. When I walk through, the first thing I see is a long metal table. It takes up most of the space in the room and is accompanied by two chairs, facing opposite each other. The walls are plain and gray, apart from the wall on my left, which holds a large tinted mirror. A surveillance camera sits in the uppermost corner beside it.

  Other than that, the room is empty.

  “Take a seat,” the man instructs, startling me. “Dr. Richter will be in momentarily.”

  I glance back at him, and he indicates the chair on the side of the table facing the mirror. Without another word, he steps out of the room. The door closes behind him, undoubtedly locking me in.

  Taking a deep breath, I try to ignore my shaken nerves as I lower myself onto the seat. Luckily, I don’t have time to consider what’s about to happen.

  Within a matter of seconds, the door opens once again, and Dr. Richter strolls into the room, his stride graceful and poised. He smiles at me, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes as he sits down in the chair on the opposite side of the table.

  “Hello, Wynter,” he murmurs. “How are you feeling?”

  I stare at him, but for some reason, I'm unable to come up with a single thing to say. He watches me with that unnerving grin still present on his face.

  “I want to see my mother,” I blurt out without thinking.

  His smile immediately vanishes. He turns away from me for a moment, and when he finally meets my gaze again, I’m met with an expression of apology that seems strangely forced.

  “I’m . . . afraid that’s not possible,” he says.

  “Why?” I ask.

  He smiles once again, although more gently this time. Regardless, the gesture does nothing to soften the blow.

  “Since you had yet to be reassigned to a new sector when you were brought in to us, you were still technically and lawfully under the guardianship of your mother. With that said, she has relinquished her custodial rights, and y
ou are now under the care and ownership of the State. Well,” he pauses, “the DSD to be more precise.”

  My eyes widen. The DSD. The Department of Scientific Discoveries. A harmless enough name that ironically coincides with the last place I could hope to find myself. This is where the State conducts human experimentation—poorly hidden behind the guise of research. Only the worst criminals are sent here, so what do they want with me?

  Am I a criminal?

  “This is your home for the foreseeable future.”

  I stare at him, the terror coursing through me faster than I can contain it.

  “I understand that what I’m telling you must come as a surprise,” he continues. “But I assure you that you are perfectly safe and will be treated with nothing but civility during your stay.”

  “And how long will that be?” I growl.

  My mother gave me up to these people. My own mother! I’m not only shocked but also disgusted. The combination of more emotions than I can even begin to name is only made worse when I remember the final words I heard her say.

  “Do what you must.”

  Suddenly, I don’t feel well. The nausea from before was nothing compared to this, and it feels as if I can’t breathe without potentially being sick. I squeeze my eyes shut to try to calm myself down, but my head is spinning.

  “Do what you must,” she said.

  “I’d like to discuss what you were doing prior to the incident.”

  My eyes snap open as the sound of the doctor’s voice drags me back to the present. When I look up at him, I realize that he never answered my question.

  “What incident?” I mumble.

  His eyes meet mine. “At W. P. Headquarters,” he replies coolly.

  I shrink back from the intensity of his gaze, and in a single moment, everything I’ve been wondering about seems to come full circle. I wasn’t sure if what happened at the exam had anything to do with this place. But now that he’s asked me, the way that he’s asked me, it’s enough to tell me that my little breakdown was worse than I thought.