The Stolen Star

6

The huge guy dumps me in small white room. Smooth walls, smooth floors, and the entire ceiling seems to be illuminated. I hit the floor on my back, pain jarring through my entire body. The door slams shut.

I’m alone.

The room is freezing. Sterile and smooth. Even the floor seems to be illuminated. Though the room is bright, it’s not blinding. My wrists and ankles are still bound by the thick metal cuffs. They’re not like regular handcuffs, with a chain between them. These are one solid piece of metal, heavy and tight. Whatever is inside doesn’t give, but it feels like it’s molded to the shape of the bottom part of my hands and wrists. There is a length of some sort of chain between the cuffs on my ankles. I test the strength, and I’m fairly confident that nothing I could possibly think of can break this.

Instead of lying helpless in the middle of the floor, I roll to my side and work myself into a sitting position. I scoot back until I’m in the corner. There is absolutely no texture in this room other than perfect smoothness.

I should have listened to Monster. David’s long-sleeved shirt, ripped and dirty now, covers my secret connection to the asshole gang-leader. I should have asked more questions.

I shouldn’t have gone back to David.

Dahvik, my mind supplies. David doesn’t exist.

I wonder how accurate my dream was. Was it even a dream, or repressed memories? Did David--Dahvik­­--reset my memories, like he did in the bathroom earlier?

Did he ever actually care about me? Why did he take me?

He got paid. Money. That’s why. Take the science experiment, find a buyer who will pay the right price. I feel sick to my stomach.

What the hell am I?

I wish, I wish, I wish, I’d asked Monster more questions. Eyes closed, I feel around in my head for that niggling little itch I sensed earlier. I’ve got the feeling that nobody is going to be exactly willing to teach me the things I need to know, so I should try to figure them out myself. Monster gave me enough information about myself that I’ve narrowed it down to two things: either I can learn how to be whatever it is I’m supposed to be, or someone has to teach them to me. I don’t completely understand the ‘coding’ part, but I know enough about computers to know that codes tell computers how to do things. It’s a simplistic view, but I’m so tired and sore I’m not thinking clearly.

I don’t have any information to base my thoughts on. Not even a hint of what might be possible. But Monster said I was different. I wasn’t Nexari, I wasn’t Ghiatam, and I wasn’t human.

Maybe I’m all three?

I’m not as tall as Monster or the three scientists. I’m solid, like them, though, and I know I’m stronger than the average human female. Monster seemed sure I was made from soldier stock, which would explain my ability to handle myself in a fight, and my tendency toward aggression when confronted.

I seek that little itch and finally find it, faint and nearly dark. Mentally, I hold on to it. It seems right to stretch it, pull it, imbue it with strength.

The interface flares alight, glowing on my palms. Something like instinct takes over. Monster, I think . He has a call sign, but I don’t know it. Then I realize, ‘Monster’ is his call sign.

But not in English. In Nexari--a language I don’t know.

Or do I?

I could read my name when he wrote it on my arm. Nexari scientists created me--why wouldn’t I know the language. Dahvik could have erased that knowledge. I pause in my attempts to contact Monster and reflect back, back, back, through dusty memories of looking out the big windows and watching the wind blow through the trees. Of a small room with a bed and a dresser, with a window on one wall that looked outside, and then another window on the opposite wall that allowed others to look in at me.