Free Resist by Tracey Martin Page B

I’m a soldier, not a defective baby.
    I never cry again, although I’ve come close.
    I awaken to the sound of a door opening somewhere in the cellblock. My eyes feel funny and I rub them, dismayed to find them wet with sympathy for my five-year-old self. Damn it. I hadn’t thought about that incident in a long time.
    I check my eyes again. They’re wet but not leaking. As long as they’re not leaking, I’m not crying.
    The dream is a bitter reminder, and it’s no surprise that I have Fitzpatrick to thank for my first exposure to the Es. She’s been tormenting me and the rest of my unit since we were moved out of the nursery and dropped into her care. She must feel vindicated that I’ve finally been locked up with the Es like she’d been predicting for fourteen years.
    My hands curl into fists. Bitch. I’m glad I shot her.
    Wait, what? I shot her?
    I freeze, replaying the thought in my mind and the certainty that comes with it. Yes, I’m quite sure I shot Fitzpatrick. Even though I can’t dredge up the specific details, the knowledge is rooted somewhere in my brain. I. Shot. Fitzpatrick.
    A grin breaks over my face, and I actually laugh out loud. Then reality, and all the implications, hit. My grin fades, and I bolt up in bed.
    Glee aside, this is pretty serious stuff. If I shot Fitzpatrick, how is it that I’m here? I’d have assumed such an act of insubordination would have ended with me dead. I mean, I know a lot of time and money went into creating and training me, but still. In the real world, outside the camp’s boundaries, that sort of behavior is punished harshly. And there’s not much that’s harsher outside the camp than inside.
    Look around, I remind myself. It’s not like I’ve gotten off without being punished. I’m locked up with the Es.
    Taking a deep breath, I wrap my arms around my legs. Right. Malone doesn’t have to do anything more permanent than erase my memories. There’s no need to shut me down if he can fix the fault in my behavior and leave me useful. In a way, it’s the perfect solution, assuming your version of punishment is about preventing further bad behavior and not just about retribution.
    One more thing becomes clear to me this morning: I need answers. I need my memories back. However dangerous it is to poke around, I have to know what I did and why.
    I’m debating angles I could use to surreptitiously question Cole and Malone—and whoever else I’m allowed to talk to today—when a guard comes by to drop off my breakfast. Make that three guards, all well-armed. If I shot a high-ranking member of RedZone, at least I get why I’m considered so dangerous.
    Not long after I’m done eating, more guards arrive and tell me I’m supposed to meet with Malone. At last. Talking to Malone is my chance not just to start piecing together what I did, but also to convince him that I’m fixed, thus getting out of captivity.
    Of course, seeing as I shot Fitzpatrick, among other sins, successfully completing my mission last night might very well not be enough to earn my release. Now I’m torn and partially wish I didn’t remember that. I’d feel more optimistic then.
    I expect the guards are going to take me to Malone’s office, but instead of heading toward the center of the camp, we veer right. Briefly, I entertain the idea that they’re taking me toward the medical wing, but we pass it and keep going. Confused, I walk in silence until it dawns on me where we’re headed.
    The regular holding cells.
    My stomach twists. I don’t like this, though there’s no reason why I should be worried. Life can’t get much worse for me than it already is. In fact, merely being transferred to a regular cell and away from the Es would be an improvement. Somehow though, I suspect that’s not what this is about. The guard definitely said Malone wanted to