Chapter 8 Rosabelle
Rosabelle
Chapter 8
Because that’s the question I’m about to answer. And he taught me everything I know.
The feed garbles as the video distorts, the sound of static overwhelming the footage as it becomes a blur of sky and branches. The inmate appears to have punted the raccoon through the forest. I immediately turn to another screen, where a different perspective—through the eyes of a hawk— showcases him from above.
James Alexander Anderson.
His bloodline is legendary.
My heart thunders in my chest as I watch him, an unfocused fear constricting my airways. Finally, I understand Soledad’s last words. Finally, I’m beginning to grasp the true level of chaos unleashed upon our island.
The Anderson family is notorious; not only are they responsible for building The Reestablishment, they’re responsible for tearing it down. The patriarch, Paris Anderson, was one of our leading founders. He rose in rank over the years to become the supreme commander of North America, only to be brutally slaughtered a decade ago by his eldest son: the infamous, traitorous Aaron Warner, who betrayed us all by defecting to the Omega rebels. He and his now wife, Juliette Ferrars—the daughter of another supreme commander—overthrew the government in one of the most devastating global coups in history.
There’s the snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves. James stands up to stretch, his sweater lifting to reveal a glimpse of lean torso. He ruffles his own hair in a boyish, unassuming fashion, then squints up at the gathering clouds.
I take a steadying breath.
First I watched him massacre an entire troop of soldiers, and now this. I’ve been sitting in this command room for at least a few hours, watching James run his battered, bloodied body through the forest. He’s hiked challenging terrain, waded through shallow lakes, and climbed a steep mountain face all while carrying over a hundred pounds of artillery on his back. He sat down on the ground at one point, tore open his own wounds, and dug bullets out of his leg with no anesthesia. It was horrifying to witness.
At the moment, James has resumed a seated position on the snow-dusted ground, his face severe in a tempest of firelight. He pushes up his sleeves to reveal strong, corded forearms before stoking the flames of a decent campfire, his motions assured and practiced. Smoke spirals skyward, announcing his location to the world, but he seems relaxed. He cracks nuts in his fists, a smile blunting his edges as he tosses acorn caps into the woods, using each one to pelt imaginary targets.
The simple game seems to please him.
I find this fascinating.
“You see the problem,” says Damani.
I tear my eyes away from James long enough to meet her gaze. Mona Damani, one of three commanders I’ve had the displeasure of meeting today. Her long dark hair gleams in the dim light of her central office, where every wall is made of tech glass that activates upon her biometric directive. I’ve been brought inside the womb of synthetic intelligence, exposed to the inner workings of Ark surveillance in a way I’ve never been before.
Somehow, this is my life now.
He is my life now.
“Yes,” I say, expressionless as I return my eyes to the screens. “He’s a competent adversary.”
Competent. Terrifying.
If I fail at this mission this man will slaughter me and it will cost him nothing. I won’t even be a memorable kill.
“Klaus has predicted his every move,” Damani says, her voice warm with satisfaction. “It’s the first time we’ve been able to properly test the program on an unknown subject.” She stills, her eyes unfocusing a moment as she receives an incoming message. She returns to herself, then consults another screen. “It’s been thrilling to watch this play out in perfect order. A true triumph.” She finishes this statement by staring at me expectantly, awaiting a response.
“Yes,” I agree. “Thrilling.”
I learned only hours ago that this level of psychological invasion was even possible. I’ve lived under the iron boot of surveillance for as long as I can remember, but Klaus’s untapped powers have proven the limits of my imagination: I cannot fathom the untold dangers of such a technology, and I still haven’t decided whether to react with terror or disgust.
It’s treason either way.
Damani manages a smile. “Your lack of enthusiasm seems to indicate a hesitation on your part.”
“You misunderstand,” I say quietly. “I never experience enthusiasm.”
She laughs in a sudden burst, one hand to her chest as various emotions—relief, understanding, concern—scatter and fade across her face. “Soledad knew you the longest, is that right? Since you were a child?”
“Yes.”
Damani nods, as if that explains everything. “The rest of us aren’t used to interacting with someone disconnected from the Nexus,” she says. “Soledad was always better at reading you than anyone else—which, of course, is why you reported to him.” She sighs heavily. “Unfortunately, his was a necessary sacrifice. We lost many brilliant souls this morning, long may they rest, all in the pursuit of a greater good for the global future. I hope you realize the weight of what we’re imparting today.”
I only stare at her. A flare of hunger tears savagely at my gut, and I blink slowly, containing it.
Her smile grows uncertain. “You can understand why we had to keep the details from you. It was imperative that your first engagement happen as organically as possible; Klaus determined that your chances of success with the subject would be higher if he had reason to underestimate your intelligence. By failing to kill him, you presented yourself as weak—a conclusion further abetted by your final plea for your sister. You evinced a convincing, pitiable frailty that diminished his opinion of you as a rival, and by sparing your life he’s established a subconscious emotional precedent as your protector, a development we hope to—” She hesitates, glancing at another screen. “Ah. Watch. In just a moment he’s going to bathe in that lake, right there—”
She taps on a glimmering body of water in the near distance, pulling it into greater focus, and I’m still processing the words pitiable frailty , heart pounding as I reassure myself I’ve revealed nothing new, that my greatest weakness has never been a secret. I’ve often felt that The Reestablishment quietly delights in the fact of Clara’s existence, if only because my concern for her gives them leverage to control me.
Abruptly James walks into the frame, approaching the lake just as predicted. He pulls his shirt over his head, and the sight of his naked upper body is so unexpected I nearly avert my eyes. I don’t want to watch this. It feels voyeuristic to watch this. And yet, I can’t look away from the screens.
I’m not allowed to look away from the screens.
I further neutralize my expression as he reveals an expansive chest, an exquisitely honed torso. Dried blood is painted down his neck, smeared across his sternum, and confusingly this only heightens his physical appeal. I feel the rise of a disconcerting heat as I study him, physical awareness kindling inside me without my conscious permission.
The sheer power of his beauty is terrifying.
The sharp slope of his nose, the brutal cut of his jaw, the staggering brawn of his body. He’d be easier to categorize if his severe lines weren’t softened by surprises: easy laughter; the wrinkle of his nose; gleaming eyes. He’s tanned everywhere the sun might touch, with a dusting of freckles scattered across his upper back. In contrast to his sun-kissed skin, the white of countless nicks and scars screams in protest. I file away this information: his healing powers do not erase the attempts on his life.
Absently, I touch a hand to my throat.
I wonder whether James will always wear the mark of our first meeting. I will forever remember, with excruciating clarity: the way I faltered when he touched me, the way he caught me on impulse, holding me steady even as I prepared to murder him.
I experience a pinprick of shame.
“What did I say?” Damani is smiling. “Amazing, right?”
“Amazing.”
The dossier I was given lists his age at twenty-one years old. His eyes, blue. His hair, brown. But in the glow of afternoon sun I see that his hair is more gilded than originally presented; from above, golden strands glint in the filtered light, lending an unexpected glamour to his appearance. It makes me wonder whether he was blonder as a child. It makes me wonder what he was like as a child, full stop.
As the son of a supreme commander he couldn’t have had an easy upbringing, and yet I cannot comprehend what emotional equation would account for the way he smiles, as if it costs him nothing. There’s something playful about him even in anger; I’ve never seen someone make violence seem casual. His unpredictability makes me nervous.
I keep searching him for patterns and uncover inconsistencies instead.
Damani pulls up a different screen, this one from the perspective of a field mouse staring squarely at him from a tree branch. James stills, as if sensing the camera, then looks over his shoulder and scowls, flipping off the tree before unbuttoning his pants.
“Perverts,” he says.
Discomfort pools inside me. I watch only his feet as he treads into the crystalline waters. He mutters a soft oath, flinching at the temperature, then dives fully into the lake.
Damani stiffens beside me. “What did he just say?”
I glance up at her sharp tone.
To herself, she says: “Play that back.”
Again, we watch James test the water, curse under his breath, and then dive into the lake.
“No,” she says, speaking with someone I can’t see. “No, he was supposed to say son of a bitch , not son of an icy bitch . Yes, look, I realize it seems like a minor detail to you, but this isn’t the first time—”
Damani leaves the room, the sound of her boots echoing. She turns briefly to seal the soundproof glass door, trapping me inside with a hundred angles of a half-naked James before leaning against a nearby pillar. Her eyes narrow as she watches me, her mouth moving rapidly. I return my eyes to the monitors.
I cannot deny that James is mesmerizing to watch.
He radiates a force and magnetism palpable even through the distance of a screen. The spectacle of his uncommon beauty puts me at a great disadvantage. It’s jarring to occupy space with him, and this fact so unnerved me the first time we met that I nearly failed to kill him. I can’t afford to be caught off guard again.
I take a tight breath, forcing myself to look at him.
To grow tired of looking at him.
He submerses himself over and over in the icy depths, pushing wet hair out of his eyes, rivers of diluted blood sluicing down his body. I wonder, as I watch him, whether he has any recollection of what was done to him. He likely doesn’t know that he was submerged in the cradle over and over during the initial hours of his imprisonment. He probably accounts for the lapses in his memory as falling asleep; a misappropriation of time. He’d never guess that Klaus was able to map his mind, mine his psychological history, and approximate his reaction to thousands of different scenarios for the duration of a twenty-four-hour period. The program is still imperfect, unfinished—and yet they were able to design a limited plan of action and reaction. As a result, they were able to steer James directly toward the outcome they desired most, all while allowing him to believe his decisions were his own.
The profitable illusion of free will.
Nothing was more devastating to The Reestablishment than the revolution that led to their downfall. It makes sense then that all efforts to feed the insatiable, chemical mind of Klaus have been in pursuit of a program designed to generate the voluntary servitude of the masses.
I can see it now, the usage scenarios multiplying. It’s simple logic: if we believe our choices are our own—if we do not know we are being bent into obeisance—we will not be tempted to revolt. The ultimate goal of synthetic intelligence, then, is the obliteration of organic intelligence.
The eradication of resistance.
A self-preservational instinct seems to glitch inside me at the thought, a stutter of my nervous system sending up a warning. I know, even as I’m thinking, that the direction of my thoughts is illegal. This fear clears the slate of my mind, wicking the theories away like water. It’s not safe to let my doubts percolate. I’ve learned the hard way that disconnection from the Nexus isn’t enough; the only way to survive mental invasions on the Ark is to police my own thoughts, keeping secrets from myself.
I refocus my energies on James, giving him my full attention as he wades deeper into the water. My head tilts in tandem with his, mirroring him as he zeroes in on something just under the surface. He goes suddenly still—and then dives with surprising force, resurfacing moments later, laughing and out of breath. I watch him do this several more times before he emerges, victorious, with a shimmering fish caught in one fist.
“ Hey ,” he calls, turning his broad smile toward a camera. “Can I eat this? Or is this robot meat?”
The fish flaps desperately in his large hand.
“I mean, look, food is food,” James is saying. “I’m not too proud to eat robot meat. But how many grams of protein do you think is in robot meat? More than a regular fish? Less? Just because I’m on vacation doesn’t mean I stop trying to hit my daily goals, you know?”
Just because I’m on vacation.
His nonchalance: another absurdity. I add this to the file I’m building in my head. Later, I’ll spend more time examining the data I’ve gathered. For now I glance over my shoulder at Damani, who’s begun pacing the short hall outside the glass door, gesticulating angrily as she speaks. She still hasn’t briefed me on my new mission, but the withholding of information follows a familiar pattern. It’s always been like this.
At least this mission, unlike the others, is cause for hope.
Should I execute my directives without fail, I might finally be released from the pit. Clara and I might finally be delivered from starvation, from illness. The penance I’ve paid all these years for the sins of my parents might finally come to an end. This was the promise Klaus made me as I was raised, like wreckage, from the amniotic fluids of his mind.
A series of splashing sounds interrupts my reverie. James emerges from the water slowly, hair dripping, clear rivulets snaking down the hard planes of his face. I’m careful to keep my eyes above his waist as he moves onto dry land. For the first time he looks almost tired, eyes closing as he stands in a cooling patch of sun. He tosses the fish toward his campsite, then pulls on a pair of dark boxer briefs. I finally exhale, a modicum of relief releasing my shoulders as I unpin my eyes from his head, watching him now warm himself before the hot coals of his fire.
Damani bursts back into the office.
The barrage of sound shatters inside me: the knocking of her heels; the exhale of the glass door; a sharp breath; the muted drum of her fingers against her arm. Gone is her triumphant smile. She looks irritated, though she explains neither her irritation nor her absence, choosing instead to hover over my shoulder, watching James now with a palpable anxiety that hadn’t existed before.
“Has he opened your letter yet?” she demands.
I turn slowly to face Damani. “What?”