Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2) by Laura Disilverio Page B

during interrogation. Fiere’s the only person I know who outlasted her interrogators.” He gives me a pointed look. “That’s my offer—take it or leave it.”
    “I’ll start this afternoon,” Wyck says. “I’ll be gone a couple days.”
    Idris nods and turns to go. I get the oddest feeling that he’s actually pleased to have a reason to see Alexander again. I dismiss it. If Idris is happy with the idea of Alexander being here, it can only be because he wants the opportunity to show off his power.
     
    Without Wyck around, I’m truly on my own. I’m friendless on a ship full of people who don’t precisely distrust me, but who aren’t sure about me, either. There’s Fiere, I tell myself. When Wyck is gone, I climb to the upper deck to find her, but she’s not there. I search the Chattahoochee Belle and finally come across her in the hold, peering into a series of tanks. I register filters and pipes and conclude this is a water cleansing system that takes in river water and purifies it for drinking. The water in the first fifty gallon tank is a murky blue and the water in the final tanks is clear, so I guess it works. The room smells of damp wood and iodine's boiled metal tang. Normally, I’d be interested in evaluating the process they’re using to extract the contaminating chemicals, but now I’m focused on Fiere.
    She’s watching bubbles rise in one tank and doesn’t acknowledge my presence. She’s cradling her fight elbow in her left hand. Each vertebra makes a clear bump through the jumpsuit she’s wearing and I get a lump in my throat. Those knobs poking through her clothes make her seem so vulnerable.
    “Hey, Fiere. Let’s go for a walk,” I suggest.
    “Leave me alone.” Her voice is monotone, uninterested.
    “Nope. Not going to happen. A walk will do you good.”
    She faces me, frowning. “Gad, you’re irritating.”
    “See, my technique works—you’re beginning to remember me already. Come on. Who knows what poisons we’re absorbing sitting down here?”
    She gets up which I count as a victory. “What did you say your name is?”
    “Everly.”
    “Were we friends?” She sounds doubtful.
    “Yes,” I say firmly. “We are friends.”
     
    We walk along a bluff that overlooks the river. A gusty wind blows away the earlier humidity and riffles our short hair. I don't think our prison cuts are going to start a new trend. Heavy-bellied clouds pile on the horizon and I think we might be in for a storm. We walk briskly for a quarter hour and I’m pleased to see a bit of color return to Fiere’s face.
    “Do you remember anything?” I finally ask.
    “That’s a stupid question. Clearly, I remember how to walk, talk, dress, feed myself, breathe.” She quickens her pace so she’s half a step ahead of me and I can’t read her face.
    I squelch my reaction to her tone. It must be almost unbearably frustrating to lose your memories, to not remember great chunks of yourself, to know there’s more of you, tantalizingly close, but just out of reach. “Okay, then, what’s the last thing you remember? Before coming to the Belle , of course.”
    She’s silent so long I think she’s not going to answer. Then, she says, “I remember being pregnant. Of looking down at my belly, obscenely swollen, and wanting to rip the fetus out of there, to reclaim myself. That can’t be right.” Her voice pleads with me to tell her she’s remembering incorrectly.
    This first memory and the rawness in her voice make me realize I might have taken on more than I’m qualified for. I don’t want to screw her up forever by saying the wrong thing, but I don’t want to deny her memories, either, even the ugly ones, because they’re part of who she is.  After a beamer quick evaluation of the options, I decide on total honesty and lack of judgment.
    “That would have been at the RESCO.” I keep my voice matter-of-fact. “The Reproduction Support Community run by the government. They implanted a zygote