“They’re not from the FRX,” Elder says, quickly regaining his composure. “They were made by people aboard Godspeed. ”
By the Plague Eldest. He made hundreds of copies of himself, all for the purpose of ensuring that he, in some form or other, would be eternal dictator of a never-changing Godspeed.
“What’s their . . . ” Mom pauses, searching for the right words. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be insensitive or ignorant, but what’s their purpose?”
Elder stares at the golden liquid. Their purpose? To make m
ore of him. Replacements. Eldest threatened to do just that—kill Elder and start again with a new fetus plucked from the sticky liquid. That’s what he did do to Orion. . . .
“No purpose,” Elder says in a hollow voice.
“Can I—feel free to tell me no, but can I dispose of them then? We could use the room. ”
Elder nods, his eyes still not leaving the cylinder. What must it feel like to see all the potential yous? I imagine Mom pulling one of the tiny beans out and putting it in an incubator next to the horse and dog fetuses. Nine months later, a little baby Elder pops out. He has Elder’s eyes and Elder’s face . . . but Elder’s soul? No.
“Okay, then,” Mom says. She turns to the cylinder, flipping up a small lid on a hidden control panel, pushes a button, and soon a soft whirring sound wraps around us. “Should only take a moment. ”
She steps back. A drain at the bottom of the cylinder opens up, and the chunky liquid filled with a hundred potential Elders disappears down a tube that hides their disposal under the floor.
In minutes, the cylinder is empty.
“Thank you,” Mom says, heading back to her analysis of the ptero blood.
A crackle of radio noise cuts through the awkward tension my mother doesn’t realize she’s created. Our attention zooms in on Chris, who’s standing straight, listening to the radio at his shoulder. We can’t hear what’s being said, but his eyes shoot to Elder.
And I know.
Kit’s been found.
34: ELDER
They bring her body straight to the shuttle, so I am glad, at least, that I was already here waiting for her to arrive.
Her hair is matted with dirt and twigs and leaves. A large streak of dark brown mud is smeared on the left side of her face and down the formerly white lab coat. She’d been so happy with the coat—a gift from Dr. Gupta—that it had made me hopeful that the Earthborns and my people could really work together. It’s ruined now, along with who knows what else. Over her chest is a red-and-black wound, a hole exploded in the flesh where her heart should be.
This was no accident.
This was not an attack from a beast, the vicious mauling of a monster.
A weapon killed Kit, a weapon wielded by a murderer.
“Who killed her?” I ask, rounding on Colonel Martin.
He raises both his hands. “We have no idea. ”
“This wound is nothing like anything one of my people could do!” I shout, pointing at the gaping hole in Kit’s chest. “One of your military—in the armory—”
“Elder,” Colonel Martin says solemnly, “we don’t have any weapon that can make a wound like that. ”
I turn to Amy, who nods silently in confirmation.
The people carrying Kit’s body lay her flat on a metal table, near the remains of the ptero Amy shot. My eyes are burning so much that I can barely see. Kit was kind, and good, and all she ever wanted to do was help other people. She was just like me: forced to take responsibility before she was ready, determined to do good in the footsteps of a predecessor who’d abused his power.
And she’s dead now.
It’s not fair. I am perfectly aware that this thought is childish, of no more use than a tantrum, but I can’t help it. It isn’t fair.
“Look at the way these wounds were made,” Amy’s mother says as she bends over the body.