16. Malia
SIXTEEN
Malia
The jet touches down hard, rattling my teeth as Soviet-era concrete stretches endlessly before us. Dawn bleeds across the horizon in shades of rust and steel, casting long shadows across a place time forgot. The guards usher us down metal stairs onto the cracked tarmac, the brittle wind bitter enough to steal my breath.
Malikai stumbles beside me, his glasses fogging in the pre-dawn chill. A facility looms ahead—a sprawling complex of concrete and steel that looks like something from a Cold War nightmare. Thick pipes snake between buildings, steam hissing from joints like dying breaths. The main structure stretches at least ten stories high, its windows dark and vacant except for occasional flickers of movement.
“Move.” The guard’s accent is thick as he prods us forward. His expensive suit looks out of place against the industrial decay. Armed men patrol the perimeter fence, their weapons modern despite the dated surroundings.
“Kai, why are they doing this?”
My legs shake as we approach the main entrance. Whether from exhaustion or fear, I’m not sure anymore. The dress I wore to dinner offers no protection against the Kazakhstan winter. Walt’s dried blood stains the silk, and I press my hand against it like a talisman.
“The quantum fusion, the containment fields are all a part of something bigger. These people aren’t just building weapons; they’re building chaos.”
“Who? Who would do that?”
“Someone called the Third Sentinel, but he’s just a pawn.” Malikai’s voice drops to a desperate whisper.
“A pawn? Whose pawn?” I keep my voice low, knowing this is something the guards can’t overhear.
“I don’t know, but the Sentinels are just pawns. They might run this facility, but they all answer to someone else.”
“What do they want?” I try to pull closer, but the guards are already dragging us apart.
“Global destabilization,” he manages to get out. “That’s what they want, and we’re the tools to make it happen.”
The guards escort us through layers upon layers of security. The place feels like a maximum security prison. Security towers punctuate the fence line every hundred yards, their spotlights cutting through the lingering darkness.
The perimeter is a study in paranoia: three layers of fencing topped with razor wire, cameras covering every angle, and what look like motion sensors scattered throughout the dead zone between barriers.
The entrance itself feels like passing through the gates of hell. Thick steel doors groan open, revealing a stark corridor lit by harsh fluorescent tubes. The air carries a metallic tang that coats my tongue, mixed with the sharp bite of industrial cleaners. Everything feels aggressively sterile, as if they’re trying to sanitize away any trace of humanity.
Other captive families huddle in the intake area—I recognize them from Kai’s whispered descriptions on the plane. Dr. Chen’s wife clutches their teenage son’s hand, both pale and drawn. Rodriguez’s daughter can’t be more than twelve, her dark eyes huge in her thin face. Dr. Williams and his wife stand close together, shoulders touching as if afraid to lose contact.
A young woman about my age catches my eye—she must be Ally, Whittman’s doctoral student. Her long blonde hair is tied back severely, but strands escape to frame a face that looks as shell-shocked as I feel. She offers a tiny nod of acknowledgment before a guard steps between us.
Power thrums through the building’s bones, a low-frequency vibration that sets my teeth on edge. Whatever they’re building, it’s hungry for energy. The lights flicker occasionally, making the shadows dance along institutional green walls. Each time they dim, the guards’ hands drift to their weapons.
I clutch my arms around myself, trying to hold what little warmth remains. The magnitude of our isolation hits me like a physical blow—we’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but steppe and sky.
No one knows where we are.
No one is coming to save us.
The guards prod us forward through stark corridors, their boots echoing against concrete. Malikai’s hand finds mine, squeezing with desperate strength. We haven’t held hands since I was small enough to need help crossing streets, but now his fingers grip mine like an anchor.
I squeeze right back.
“Processing,” one guard announces, gesturing to a steel door marked with Cyrillic letters. “Males left. Females right.”
“No.” Malikai’s voice cracks as guards move to separate us. “Please, I need to stay with her. She’s my responsibility, I have to?—”
A guard cuts him off with a sharp jab to the ribs.
“Kai—” I reach for him, but hands grab my arms, yanking me toward the right-hand door.
“Malia!” He fights against the guards holding him, his glasses askew, his academic composure shattering. “Don’t hurt her! I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t?—”
The butt of a rifle silences him. As they drag him through the left door, our fingers stretch toward each other like children reaching for lifelines. His last look carries years of guilt and fear before steel doors slam between us.
I’m met inside by a woman in a pristine white lab coat that contrasts sharply with the appalling and depressive gray room.
“Strip.” The woman’s command carries no emotion. When I hesitate, she sighs. “Either you remove the dress, or we remove it for you.”
My fingers tremble on the zipper. The silk whispers to the floor, leaving me exposed under harsh lights. The woman doesn’t even blink when she sees I’m completely naked beneath the dress.
Images of Walt grabbing my panties, sniffing them, and stuffing them in his pocket flood my mind. His tempestuous eyes, dark and aroused, the low gravelly sound of his voice, and the delicious things he promised feel lost to me.
They photograph every angle, documenting existing bruises and marks with clinical precision. The woman notes Walt’s blood on the dress before sealing it in a plastic bag—evidence of a life I’m no longer allowed to claim.
“Arms up. Turn slowly.” Her latex gloves are cold against my skin as she searches for hidden weapons or communication devices. The medical exam that follows is thorough and humiliating. Blood draws, dental records, fingerprints—cavity searches. They document everything like I’m a specimen rather than a person.
They issue standard clothing—scratchy gray cotton pants, white T-shirts, and sturdy boots. Everything’s identical and stripped of individuality. Even the underwear comes in uniform packets, sized and labeled like we’re inventory rather than humans.
“Medical history?” The woman doesn’t look up from her tablet as she rapid-fires questions. Allergies, surgeries, medications—building a file that makes me feel like property rather than a person. Each answer is meticulously logged.
My hair falls around my shoulders as they confiscate my hair tie—apparently, even elastics can be weapons. They take my watch, earrings, and even the small silver bracelet my mother gave me before she died. Each item disappears into labeled bags, becoming part of some vast cataloging system.
“Open your mouth.” The dental exam feels invasive, with latex-covered fingers probing for hidden compartments or tools. They scan for implants or devices, treating my body like a potential security breach rather than flesh and blood.
Fingerprints come next. Then, retinal scans, DNA swabs, and voice prints. Every unique identifier is cataloged and filed away. They even measure and photograph my feet—apparently, shoe size can be used for identification if we try to run.
The final indignity is the tracking bracelet they lock around my wrist. The metal is warm from the soldering iron, a permanent reminder of my new status. The bracelet beeps softly, synchronizing with their security system. Now, they can track my every movement within the facility’s confines.
“Medical ID number 2847-B,” the woman announces, attaching a file to my new identity. “Familial leverage for Asset Singh. Security clearance level zero.” She finally meets my eyes. “Welcome to the program.”