19. Malia
NINETEEN
Malia
After processing, I’m escorted to a dormitory and shoved into a tiny apartment that is a study in Soviet minimalism—two bedrooms, one bath, and a combined living area. No kitchenette. I suppose kitchen utensils could become weapons; they don’t want that.
The walls are bare concrete, painted institutional beige decades ago. A single window offers a view of an inner courtyard, its thick glass reinforced with wire mesh. Even if we could break it, the forty-foot drop would be fatal.
The door buzzes, then opens with a metallic groan. Guards shove Malikai inside, his lean frame stumbling from the force. He’s dressed in the same gray uniform they gave me, his glasses slightly crooked from rough handling. His face is already bruising where the rifle struck him.
“Kai!” I rush forward, needing to verify he’s real.
He catches me in a fierce hug, his body trembling. They’ve already erased the professor, the brilliant physicist. My big brother feels smaller somehow, diminished.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into my hair, the words carrying years of guilt. “I’m so sorry, Sissy.” His arms tighten as guards move to separate us. “Please,” he begs them. “Ju-just give us a minute.”
Surprisingly, they step back, though weapons remain ready. Perhaps even here, some small mercies survive. Or maybe they want to document our weakness and measure our bond to better use it against us.
“Home sweet home,” Malikai mutters; his attempt at humor falls flat. The furniture is purely functional—metal-frame beds with thin mattresses, basic chairs, and a small table. No electronics, no decorations, nothing that could be used to communicate or cause harm. Even the mirror in the bathroom is polished metal rather than glass.
I explore my bedroom slowly, cataloging its limitations. The bed is bolted to the floor, and the mattress is sealed in a waterproof material that crinkles when I sit. A small dresser contains our issued clothing—everything identical and labeled with our ID numbers. A single shelf holds approved reading material—technical manuals and classic literature, nothing published in the last decade.
The bathroom door doesn’t lock—privacy is a privilege we haven’t earned. Even the toilet paper is counted and rationed, and our usage is monitored like everything else.
Air circulates through vents too small to crawl through, carrying the perpetual scent of industrial cleaner. The temperature remains constant, controlled by systems we can’t access. Cameras in the corners track every movement—their red lights blinking steadily like malevolent eyes.
The window draws me like a moth to the flame. The courtyard below is barren concrete, divided into exercise yards by high fences. Other apartments face ours across the void, their windows identical to ours. I count six levels of housing units—enough for all the captured families plus additional space for the guards and whoever else inhabits this dreary space.
Are they expecting more prisoners? Or maybe it’s left over from the Soviet era?
A panel by the door displays our schedules—mealtimes, permitted recreation periods, and designated shower slots. Everything is regulated and monitored. A speaker above it occasionally crackles with announcements in multiple languages.
Big Brother is always watching, always listening.
The worst part is how permanent it feels. This isn’t a temporary holding cell—it’s designed for long-term containment. They’ve thought of everything and eliminated every possible means of escape or communication. We’re rats in a maze, our movements controlled, our lives reduced to schedules and rations.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching my breath fog the surface. Somewhere out there, beyond the fences, guards, and endless steppe, Walt is either dead or looking for me.
I don’t know which possibility hurts more.
Malikai paces our small living space, his fingers tapping out quantum equations on his thigh—the familiar gesture feels like a betrayal. Those equations led us here, trapped in this concrete cage.
“I never thought…” He stops, staring at his hands like they belong to someone else. “The breakthrough was theoretical. Just numbers on a page.” His voice cracks. “I should have destroyed everything when we achieved quantum tunneling in the palladium matrix. Should have known they’d come for it.”
I sit on the metal chair, letting silence fill the space between us. The distance feels greater than the few feet separating us—it’s measured in lies and omissions, in choices that can’t be undone.
“They approached me six months ago.” He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Offered funding, resources, anything I needed. When I refused…” His hands shake as he cleans the lenses with his shirt. “They showed me photos. You at the coffee shop. They’ve been watching for months.”
The revelation hits like a punch to the gut. While crafting lattes and falling in love, shadowy figures documented my every move.
In Guardian HQ?
How?
“That’s why you came to dinner? To say goodbye?”
“I thought—public place, witnesses…” He laughs bitterly. “Stupid. So stupid. I underestimated them.”
Grief etches new lines around his eyes, aging him years in days. My brilliant brother, who once explained quantum entanglement using coffee beans and sugar packets, looks lost in his own equations.
“Did you know they’d shoot him?” The question comes out sharp enough to draw blood.
“No!” His denial is instant, vehement. “God, Malia, no. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That I could slip you the drive, that someone would find it, that…” He presses his palms against his eyes. “I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”
“But he did.” I stand, needing distance. “Walt bled out on that pavement because of your choices.”
“I know.” His voice breaks. “I know, and I’ll never…” He reaches for me, but I step back. “I’m so sorry, Sissy. I’d give anything to go back, to warn you, to?—”
“To what?” The old nickname feels wrong now, tainted by betrayal. “To let me choose? To tell me the truth? When exactly in the past six months did you plan to mention that your research could get us killed?”
He flinches like I’ve struck him. “They’ll kill millions if they weaponize this. Billions! You have to understand. In the wrong hands, the containment fields, the quantum tunneling effect—it’s not just a power source. It’s…”
“A doomsday device.” The words taste like ashes. “And now they have exactly what they need. The research, the researchers, and the leverage to make you build it.”
His shoulders slump in defeat. I’m sorry feels inadequate now, lost in the space between the brother I knew and the man whose choices landed us here.
“Well,” I glance around the tiny, suffocating apartment, “I guess we should explore while we still can.” The guards left after depositing Malikai, and they left the door open. I’m not letting that opportunity go to waste.
Beyond rows of other apartments, we come upon what looks to be a common area. It’s bare except for bolted-down tables and chairs, all arranged to maximize surveillance camera coverage. That’s where I meet Ally. She sits alone by the window, her fingers tracing equations in the condensation like ghostwriting.
“Quantum tunneling effect in crystalline matrices?” I recognize the formula from Kai’s work. Her startled look shifts to curiosity as I sit across from her.
“You understand this stuff?” She gestures to the fading numbers.
“No. Pattern recognition. My brother tried teaching me. Mostly, I just memorized enough to follow his excited rambling.” The almost-smile we share feels like the first real thing since arriving. “I’m Malia.”
“Ally. Doctor Whittman’s eternal doctoral student.” Her attempt at humor carries an edge of bitterness. “Though I guess finishing my doctorate isn’t a priority anymore.”
She’s closer to my age than any other captive—maybe twenty-five, with the intense focus I recognize in Kai. Her blonde hair is pulled back severely, but strands escape like acts of rebellion.
“How long?” I don’t need to specify.
“A few days.” She wipes away the equations. “They took us from CERN—grabbed Whittman right after a lecture. I was—I was just in the wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong thesis topic.”
The guards watch us from their posts, but she’s learned their patterns. When the nearest one turns his patrol, she speaks faster and lower. “Chen was first. Then Rodriguez and his daughter. Williams and his wife a day before your arrival.”
“My brother mentioned containment fields, fusion reactions…”
“More than that.” Her voice drops further. “The power draws are massive.” She glances at the guards. “Let’s just say our chances of survival depend entirely on our success.”
Understanding clicks. We’re not just hostages for cooperation—we’re insurance against sabotage. If the scientists try to stop the project, their families pay the price.
“Do you work in the labs?” I ask when the guard passes again.
“I do.” She shakes her head. “Families aren’t allowed below ground, but my thesis is based on sustainable nuclear fusion. Sometimes, at night, you can feel the whole building shake. And the power surges…” Her fingers tap restlessly on the table. “They’re pushing the containment fields past safety limits. One failure, one miscalculation… I dream about CERN sometimes,” she admits softly. “About equations and coffee runs and stupid department politics. When physics was beautiful instead of terrifying.”
Her words echo something in my soul—memories of The Guardian Grind, of Walt’s smile, of a life where coffee was just coffee and love was just beginning.