Origin

  ORIGIN

  JESSICA KHOURY

  An Imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Origin

  RAZORBILL

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group

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  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © 2012 Jessica Khoury

  ISBN: 978-1-101-59072-0

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  FOR BEN.

  ALWAYS.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  ONE

  I’m told that the day I was born, Uncle Paolo held me against his white lab coat and whispered, “She is perfect.” Sixteen years later, they’re still repeating the word. Every day I hear it, from the scientists or the guards, from my mother or from my Aunt Brigid. Perfect.

  They say other things too. That there are no others like me, at least not yet. That I am the pinnacle of mankind, a goddess born of mortal flesh. You are immortal, Pia, and you are perfect, they say.

  But as I follow Uncle Paolo to the laboratory, my bootlaces trailing in the mud and my hands clutching a struggling sparrow, the last thing I feel is perfect.

  Outside the compound, the jungle is more restless than usual. The wind, lightly scented with orchids, prowls through the kapoks and palms as if searching for something it lost. The air is so damp that drops of water appear, almost magically, on my skin and on Uncle Paolo’s pepper-gray hair. When we pass through the garden, the heavy-hanging passionflowers and spiky heliconias brush against my legs, depositing dew onto the tops of my boots. Water is everywhere, just like every other day in the rainforest. But today it feels colder—less refreshing and more invasive.

  Today is a testing day. They are called the Wickham tests, and they only come every few months, often by surprise. When I awoke in my glass-walled bedroom this morning, I expected the usual: reciting genus and species lists to Uncle Antonio, comparing algae specimens under microscopes with Uncle Jakob, followed, perhaps, by a long swim in the pool. But instead, I was greeted by Mother, who informed me that Uncle Paolo had decided to hold a test. She then breezed out the door and left me scrambling to get ready. I didn’t even have a chance to tie my shoelaces.

  Hardly ten minutes later, here I am.

  The bird in my hands fights relentlessly, scratching my palms with his tiny talons and snapping at my fingertips with his beak. It does no good. His claws are sharp enough to break the skin—just not my skin. That’s probably why Uncle Paolo told me to carry the bird instead of doing it himself.

  Indestructible it may be, but my skin feels three sizes too small, and it’s all I can do to keep my breathing steady. My heart flutters more frantically than the bird.

  Testing day.

  The last test I took, four months ago, didn’t involve a live animal, but it was still difficult to pass. I had to observe five different people—Jacques the cook, Clarence the janitor, and other nonscientist residents—to calculate whether they contributed more to the welfare of Little Cam than it cost to feed, pay, and keep them. I was terrified that my findings would result in someone being fired. No one was, but Uncle Paolo did have a talk with Aunt Nénine, the laundress, about how much time she spent napping compared with the time she spent keeping up with the wash. I asked Uncle Paolo what the test would prove, and he told me it would show whether my judgment was clear enough to make rational, scientific observations. But I’m still not sure Aunt Nénine has forgiven me for my report, rational observations or not.

  I look down at the sparrow and wonder what’s in store for him. For a moment, my will—and my fingers—weaken only slightly, but it’s enough for the bird to jerk free and launch into the air. My enhanced reflexes make a decision faster than my brain: my hand reaches out, closes around the bird in midair, and draws him back to me, all in the time it takes the eye to blink.

  “Everything all right?” Uncle Paolo asks without turning.

  “Yes, fine.” I know he knows what just happened. He always does. But he also knows I would never be so disobedient as to let his chosen specimen fly free.

  I’m sorry, I want to say to the bird.

  Instead, I hold on tighter.

  There are two lab buildings in Little Cam. We arrive at B Labs, in the smaller one, and Mother is waiting inside. She wears her crisp, white lab assistant’s coat and is pulling on latex gloves. They snap against her wrists.

  “Is everything ready, Sylvia?” Uncle Paolo asks.

  She nods and leads the way, passing door after door. We finally stop in front of a small, rarely used lab near the old wing, which was destroyed in a fire years ago. The door to the ruined hall is locked, and from the rust on the doorknob I can tell it hasn’t been opened in years.

  Inside the lab, metal shelves and cabinets and sinks line the walls, and they all catch and distort my reflection. In the center of the room is a small aluminum table, with two chairs on either side and a metal cage on its surface.

  “Put subject 557 inside,” Uncle Paolo says, and I release the bird into the cage, which is just large enough for him to fly in a tight circle. He throws himself at the metal grate, then lands, wings spread awkwardly, on the bottom. After a moment he laun
ches up again, beating his wings determinedly against his captivity.

  Then I notice the wires snaking from the cage to the table, down and across the floor, to a small generator under the emergency eyewash station.

  I miss a breath, then glance at Uncle Paolo to see if he noticed. He didn’t. He’s filling out some forms on a clipboard.

  “All right, Pia,” he says as his pen scratches away. The bird lands again, takes off, clutches the side of the cage with his small talons. Uncle Paolo hands me the clipboard. “Take a seat. Good. Did you bring a pen?”

  I didn’t, so he gives me his and pulls another from his coat pocket. “What do I do?” I ask.

  “Take notes. Measure everything. This particular test subject has been given periodic doses of a new serum I’ve been developing with suma.”

  Suma. Pfaffia paniculata, a common enough stimulant, but there are probably dozens of uses for it we haven’t discovered yet. “So…we’re testing to see if the subject handles the…stress of this test better than an untreated control subject.”

  “Right,” he says with a smile. “Excellent, Pia. This serum—I call it E13—should kick in when the bird has exhausted the last of its strength, giving it another few minutes of energy.”

  I nod in understanding. Such a serum could prove useful in a myriad of medicinal ways.

  “No computers today,” Uncle Paolo tells me. “No instruments. Just rely on your own faculties. Observe. Record. Later we’ll evaluate. You know the process.”

  “Yes.” My eyes flicker to the bird. “I do.”

  “Sylvia!” Uncle Paolo snaps his fingers at my mother, and she flips a switch on the generator. I feel the electricity before it hits the cage, a low vibration that sizzles through the wires by my feet. The hairs on my arms begin to rise as if the electricity were pumping into me.

  The cage begins to hum, and the bird shrieks and jerks into the air, only to collide with the metal and get shocked again. I lean forward and watch and see the moment the bird realizes he can’t land. His pupils constrict, his feathers flare, and he begins wheeling in tight, dizzying loops.

  I feel nauseated, but I dare not let Uncle Paolo see. He leans back, hands folded on his own clipboard. He isn’t here to observe the sparrow.

  He’s here to observe me.

  I bow my head and force myself to write something down. Ammodramus aurifrons—yellow-browed sparrow, usually found in less dense areas of the rainforest. I look up again, watching the bird. Watching Uncle Paolo watching me. I keep every muscle in my face perfectly still and draw each breath deliberately, slow and even. I can’t let him see me wince, or gasp, or anything that might indicate my emotions are hindering my objectivity. The bird tries to land again, and I hear the snap and sizzle of the electricity. Already weary, the helpless sparrow resumes his frenetic circling.

  In flight for 3.85 minutes, I jot down. At 9.2 wing beats per sec =2097.6 beats…flight for 2.4 minutes…The numbers are all reflex to me. The scientists like to tease me about it, saying I spend too much time with them. Once I responded, “Who else is there?” They never replied to that.

  The sparrow is beginning to make mistakes. His wings grow clumsy, earning him more frequent shocks. At one point he seizes the metal bars in his talons and flattens himself against the side of the cage, tiny body shuddering with electricity.

  I know Uncle Paolo’s eyes are on me, searching for any sign of weakness. It’s all I can do not to wince.

  I can’t fail this. I can’t. Of all my studies, the Wickham tests are the most important. They gauge whether I am ready to be a scientist. Whether I’m ready for the secrets of my own existence. Once I prove I’m one of them, my real work can begin: creating others like me. And that is everything. I am the first and only of my kind, and I’ve been the first and only for sixteen years. Now, there is only one thing I want: someone else who knows. Knows what it is to never bleed. Knows what it is to look ahead and see eternity.

  Knows what it is to be surrounded by faces that you love, faces that will one day stop breathing and start to decay while your own will remain frozen outside of time.

  None of them know. Not Mother, not Uncle Paolo, not any of them. They think they can understand. They think they can empathize or imagine with me. But all they really know is what they can observe, such as how fast I can run or how quickly bruises on my skin can fade. When it comes to the hidden part of me, the inner, untouchable Pia, all they can really know is that I’m different.

  They cannot possibly imagine how much.

  Suddenly the E13 serum must take effect, because the bird takes off again, circles and wheels, and I note every move, though my hand begins to shake. I see a look of triumph in Uncle Paolo’s eyes as the bird beats its wings with double the vigor it had when the test began. One, two, six more minutes, and the serum-induced energy begins to wane. The bird starts to falter again.

  I want it to stop, but I can’t look to Mother. She’d only side with him, as she always does. Uncle Paolo’s pen scratches and scratches. I want to see what he’s writing down about me, but I have to concentrate on holding myself together.

  The sparrow can’t keep it up much longer or his heart will stop. Surely you won’t let it go that far. I glance at Uncle Paolo’s face, but he remains as impassive as ever. The perfect scientist.

  “I think…” I pause, lick my lips. My mouth is dry. “I think I have enough data.”

  “The test isn’t over, Pia,” Uncle Paolo says with a frown.

  “Well, it’s just that…in another minute, his heart will—”

  “Pia.” My name is severe on his lips, and the wince I’ve been holding back finally escapes. Uncle Paolo leans forward. “The test is not over. Get your emotions under control, Pia. Keep your eye on the goal, not the steps you must take to reach it. The goal is everything. The steps are nothing. No matter how difficult the journey is, the goal is always worth it.”

  I open my lips to protest further, but then slowly sit back and relent. He won’t let it go that far. He won’t.

  The sparrow lands clumsily, takes off again, seeking not escape now, but rest.

  He won’t.

  The bird doesn’t stay aloft for more than three seconds before crashing again. He struggles, but can’t summon the energy to take off. Instead, he hops raggedly, eyes glazing.

  The electricity sizzles and pops.

  Will he?

  My lips part, and I gather my breath—

  But finally Uncle Paolo speaks. “Enough. Turn it off, Sylvia.”

  My mother shuts off the generator, and the bird slumps with relief.

  So do I.

  Uncle Antonio finds me in my room. I sit cross-legged on my bed, holding the sparrow in my hands. He’s too exhausted and traumatized to struggle now, and I stroke his feathers absently as I stare out at the jungle.

  Three of my bedroom walls and even the ceiling are made of glass. Since the little house sits on the outskirts of the compound, by the western fence, I have an almost 360-degree view of the rainforest. My room used to be a greenhouse. When I was born the scientists decided to convert it into a bedroom for me, and the rest of the house—botany laboratories—was renovated into another bedroom and bath, a living room, and a study to accommodate my mother.

  They’ve often discussed replacing the glass of my room with plaster, but I’ve fought them on it every time, just as I fought to have them remove the cameras that once watched me night and day. I won on both accounts, but barely. Since the glass house sits only yards from the fence and my bedroom faces the forest, I am hidden from the rest of Little Cam but still have a panoramic view of the jungle. It’s almost like not having walls at all. I love waking up and seeing the trees overhead. Sometimes I’ll sit on my bed for hours, staring out to see what animals will pass by my window.

  And sometimes I even imagine what it would be like to stand on the other side of that fence. Looking in, instead of looking out. Being able to run as far as I want.

  But that’s ridicu
lous. My world is Little Cam, and even if I were out there in the jungle, I’d have nowhere to go.

  Uncle Antonio walks to the glass wall and stands with his back to the jungle, hands in his pockets, and watches me.

  Of all my aunts and uncles in Little Cam, Uncle Antonio is my favorite. Unlike everyone else, he never calls me perfect. He calls me “Chipmunk” instead, though I’ve never seen one, except in zoology books. Neither has he, for that matter. Like me, Uncle Antonio was born in Little Cam.

  “I passed,” I say to his unspoken question, and his eyes fall to the sparrow cupped in my hands.

  “And him?”

  “I’m supposed to put him back in the menagerie.”

  Uncle Antonio’s lips are pressed tightly together, hidden in the thick growth of his beard. He disapproves highly of these tests, but he never says so. Uncle Paolo calls all the shots in Little Cam, and there’s nothing Uncle Antonio can do about that.

  “I’ll walk with you,” he says. I nod, glad for his company.

  We leave the glass house and make our way to the menagerie. Ten rows of horizontal bars, webbed in between with electrically charged chain link, surround the glass house and the rest of the research compound we call Little Cam, where we’re hidden beneath the rainforest canopy like ants in a patch of grass, safe and secret. There are thirteen buildings here. Some are laboratories, some are dormitories, and one is the social center, where the gymnasium, pool, lounge, and dining hall are. Twenty-four scientists, a dozen guards, and several maids, maintenance men, cooks, and lab assistants make up the population of Little Cam. I’m the reason they’re all here, and I’m the reason no one can know this place exists.

  “How many more tests do you think I have to pass before I’m ready?” I ask.

  Uncle Antonio shrugs. “Not something Paolo discusses with me. Why? Are you in a hurry? Of all people, I’d think you’d be the last one in a hurry.”

  Because you’ve only got forever, I know he must be thinking. I look up at him, wondering—not for the first time—what it must be like to know that one day you could suddenly just end.

  Uncle Antonio scratches his beard, which is thick and curly and makes him look like a woolly monkey. “What did he say? After it was over?”