Apocalypse - Keith R. A. DeCandido [76]
Thirty-Four
She woke up naked with the feeling that it had happened before.
But she couldn’t remember when or how or why.
Or who she was.
She was in a tube, she knew that much. She was also all wet.
There was something on her face. Whatever it was, it allowed her to breathe underwater. Various tubes fed into her body, and she wondered if these tubes were providing her with food.
The upright tube she was immersed in was in a laboratory of some kind.
Two people were talking, one man, one woman. They were among the dozens of people in the laboratory, and the only ones whose words she could make out. She did not recognize either of them, though she felt she should. They both wore white clothing.
She didn’t understand how she could know so much—like what a laboratory would look like—yet not remember so much more—like her own name.
The woman said to the man, “She’s taking almost no nutrients from the system. The regen seems almost spontaneous. It’s like she’s sucking energy out of thin air.”
She had no idea what any of that meant. Except for “thin air,” which she assumed she had no access to, since she was surrounded by water.
The man looked at her. “Can you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The thing on her mouth let her breathe, but kept her from talking. She remembered that nodding would work in this case, so she did.
“Good.” The man turned to one of the other people in the laboratory. “Begin the purging process.”
She heard a strange noise. Moments later, the water was down to her head—then her neck, her chest, and so on, until the tube was empty. Hot air blasted her for a few seconds, drying her off. Then the tube opened, and one of the people in the laboratory removed the tubes and the thing around her mouth.
Now she could walk around freely. She started exploring the room, taking in the sights, sounds, textures—the different colors of all the pieces of furniture and clothes, the humming of the various pieces of equipment, the coldness of the floor against her bare feet.
“Her recovery is remarkable.” One of the people in white was talking about something—probably about her. “The regeneration of both organs and tissue is simply off the scale. And her powers, both physical and mental, seem to be developing at a geometric rate. Better than we ever could have hoped for.”
One of the people in white—not the one who was talking—was sitting and using a stick of some kind on a piece of paper.
Another of the people in white, the one who seemed to be in charge of everything, asked, “You know what that is?”
She just stared at it—she had no idea.
The man in charge took it from the other man and started mimicking his motions. “Pen. See?”
He took her hand, put the stick—the pen, rather—into it and guided it onto the piece of paper.
“A pen,” he repeated.
The man in charge let go, and she started using it on her own. She couldn’t do much with it—even though she’d only just figured out what it was, she recognized that what she was doing with it was silly looking.
So silly, in fact, that she smiled.
“That’s right,” the man in charge said, “pen.”
For the first time since they’d let her out of the tube, she tried to talk. “W—”
The sound came out scratchy. She tried again.
“Where—”
The man in charge prompted her. “Where are you?”
She nodded.
“You’re safe. Do you remember anything? Do you remember your name?”
What was that?
“Your name?” the man in charge said again.
“Name?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“My—name—is…”
The concept was tickling at the back of her mind. She knew what a name was, she was pretty sure, but it wouldn’t come to her.
She sighed.
The man in charge turned to the other people. “I want her under twenty-four-hour observation. I want a complete set of blood work and chemical and electrolyte analysis by the end of the day.”
Then, suddenly, it hit her.
“What’s your story? The place is