Page 57 of The Atom Between Us

She leave me with the folder, the passcode, and a fresh cup of coffee.

This time, I drink it all.

And I remember every fucking drop.

They always send a guard. Today it’s Ellis again, but there’s no nod, no secret handshake—just the Authority scowl and a grip on my elbow that dares me to try something. Down the elevator, through three checkpoints. Every door in the admin block smells of isopropyl and the perfume of freshly charged capacitors.

The laboratory is even colder than my suite, if possible. Blue-white LEDs flicker overhead, and there’s a constant hiss from the ventilation system. Half the techs wear full containment suits; the rest hide behind the glass like the real monsters are in here, not out there.

Captain Kang stands behind a partition, arms folded, eyes on the data feed. His uniform is pressed sharp, but his body language is wrong—tense, brittle, like his skeleton is too big for his skin. I catch the shimmer of sweat on his brow, the way his right hand trembles at rest.

“Begin protocol,” says a voice from the PA, female, bored.

Ellis pushes me toward the main bench, where a bank of vials waits, each labeled in Authority block letters. Most are blood samples: prisoners, guards, a few marked “CONTROL.” I glance up at the camera, then at Kang. He’s watching, but his gaze is unfocused, as if he’s fighting a migraine with every muscle.

I start the tests. It’s all automated, most of the machines Authority surplus from pre-Zone days, but the code is still my own. I recognize the sequence, the error corrections, even the little backdoor I wrote for “data integrity”—a fancy way of saying “steal a copy for yourself.”

As the centrifuge spins, I scan Kang through the glass. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, pressing hard enough to leave a red welt. At intervals, he massages his left temple, like he’s trying to squeeze out a memory. There’s no one else in the observation booth.

I slide a pipette into the “CONTROL” sample. It’s familiar, almost comforting: the steady draw, the careful transfer, the way the liquid clings to the inside of the glass. Next, I swap in a vial with my own ID number. I run both through the scanner, then pull up the results on the terminal.

Normal blood shows baseline. Mine—mine shows anomalies: elevated protein folding, a weird oscillation in the RNA signatures, and a small but distinct band of nanites clustered around the hippocampus markers.

I knew it. The Protocol didn’t just try to erase my memory; it left something behind.

I slide the results onto a storage chip, tiny as a fingernail. I palm it, waiting for a gap in the schedule. On the monitor, Kang stares straight ahead, unblinking, jaw tight. A fresh bead of sweat runs down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe it away.

I check the next sample: Ellis’s. The label isn’t obvious, but I recognize the code—EMP, first three of “Empirical.” I run the test, then cross-reference the patterns. Same nanite clusters, though less pronounced.

The PA voice cracks again. “Status, Kang?”

His reply is delayed, as if the pain has slowed his wiring. “Subject is compliant. Sequence progressing on schedule. No adverse events.”

A lie, but a perfect one.

I keep working, hands on autopilot, but my brain’s already three moves ahead: The Spheres are the map, like Maven said, but these blood signatures are the legend. The nanites are Authority’s way of forcing a lock on memory, but if I can find the key frequency⁠—

The door slides open with a pneumatic whoosh. A new figure enters the lab: Petrov, in a long coat, looking like a wolf let loose in a poultry shed. He doesn’t glance at me, just steps to the glass, folds his arms, and surveys Kang.

“Update,” Petrov says.

Kang stiffens, and for a split second his green eyes flash, not with anger, but something like fear. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens again. “Subject is adhering to all testing protocols. We’re… on schedule.”

Petrov stares, not moving. “You look tired, Captain.”

“I’m fine, sir.”

A pause, then Petrov’s gaze lands on me. “How’s our star scientist today?”

I muster a smile. “Surviving, sir.”

Petrov grins, but it’s just a bare movement of the lips. He turns back to Kang. “You’re dismissed for now. Get some rest, Captain.”

Kang nods, then moves to the exit, but hesitates at the threshold. He glances back at me, and for a fraction of a second our eyes meet.

There’s a flash—a literal white-out behind my eyes—of a memory I don’t own: Kang, younger, out of uniform, sitting on a desk while I stand at a whiteboard, scribbling equations. I’m smiling, not the brittle, Authority version, but real, wide, like we’re sharing an inside joke.

Then it’s gone, replaced by the throb of my own headache.