Free Incubation (The Incubation Trilogy Book 1) by Laura Disilverio Page A

choice. If we don’t cut them out, we’ll be hunted down in hours.
    We hash over our plan for two hours until Halla rubs her arms and whispers, “I’ve got to get back. It’s my night to get the four-year-olds ready for bed. I’ll be missed.” She starts to rise and I grasp her hand to help. She holds tight to my hand, even after she’s standing. After a moment, I reach for Wyck’s hand and he takes Halla’s other hand. We stand in a circle, silent, connected, committed.
    “All for one and one for all,” Wyck says jauntily, but with an undertone of seriousness.
    The Three Musketeers . Buddies on an adventure. Of course Wyck would think of them. As Halla’s hand tightens painfully around mine, I feel like we’re bonded together, the three of us, our linked hands the shared electrons that form a covalent bond between atoms, virtually unbreakable. Peaceful resolve settles in me.
    “Family,” Halla whispers. She lets go of my hand to lay her hand on her abdomen.
    Then Wyck pulls away and heads for the scooters. “See you at the docking station at midnight,” he says.
    Halla manages a smile and hugs me. “Thank you for coming with me,” she says. “You’re the best friend I’ll ever have. Better than a sister.”
    A lump rises in my throat at the idea of us as sisters. Like Laura and Mary. Would that make Wyck our brother? I don’t feel very sisterly toward him these days. None of us are really family, I remind myself. My time with the Ushers taught me that the only real family is your biological family. I say nothing, hugging my best friend tightly. There’ll be time enough for talking once we put twenty miles between ourselves and the Kube.
     

Chapter Eight
    Halla follows Wyck out of the dome, and I skim to the lab. The door whoosh es open at my iris scan and I walk in, merging with the hush. Refrigeration units hum, and a centrifuge clinks softly from the back. Familiar sounds. I walk the length of the lab to the computer room and sit facing a unit, placing my left thumb on the bioplate. It boots up with a whir and the display materializes in front of me. I’m uncomfortable abusing Dr. Ronan’s trust like this—he may get in trouble for having assigned me my own access code—but needs must. My fingers flick the display. I don’t have much experience with the computer and it takes me well over an hour to locate the maps we’ll need. I download them to a portable data device and then print them out as well, to be sure. For good measure, I find the precise geocoords of Loudon’s IPF base and the Ministry of Science and Food Production, which happens to hold the central DNA registry. Proctor Fonner might say the database didn’t reveal my parents’ identities, but he’s lying. Everyone’s DNA is in that database from birth.
    I search the lab for other useful items, pocketing several chemical fire starters, two collapsible water-proof containers, a heat-proof beaker, sleeves of hydropure tablets, and, on impulse, some of the metal stakes we’ve been using to support the new pea hybrid. There’s wire binding the vines to the stakes, and I take a roll of that, as well. I stash it all in one of the lightweight backpacks researchers carry when they’re collecting soil, water and local area flora samples, first removing their instruments and sample containers. The researcher pack has a compass, and I take that, and then steal the compasses from two other researcher kits. I'd prefer the more advanced Navigizmos, but these will do.
    I’m examining the maps when a muted clink jerks my head up. Dr. Ronan stands mere feet away, sipping Wexl from a lab beaker, eyes fixed on me. The glowing green liquid coats the glass as he lifts it to his lips. His incongruous blond hair is more mussed than usual and he’s wearing a plaid robe and slippers, garb no apprentice would be allowed to own, much less wear. It’s far too individual . I chew myself out for being so absorbed in my search that I didn’t hear