The Forsaken

minimal tissue damage. All selection units are equipped with flight capabilities, and the capacity to acquire and disable uncooperative subjects with minor energy expenditure.”
    “Selection units. That’s what the feelers are,” I mutter to Gadya tiredly.
    We are just test subjects. Specimens. But why?
    “Our selection units have an eighty-four percent success rate in accurately acquiring their target samples,” the voice regales us proudly. It doesn’t understand or care that it’s talking about human beings. “Our staff can brief you on the latest data.”
    “You have no staff,” I finally say, my voice echoing in my ears. “The staff you keep talking about? They’re gone. No one’s here but you, and all these frozen bodies.”
    It picks up on the word “you.” “Yes, I am Clara, your automated guide—”
    “Your staff has left you here, but you don’t care,” I continue. “And you never will. Because you’re not human. You’re a machine. The UNA has automated mass murder.”
    The voice doesn’t have an answer for that one. Maybe I’ve finally confounded it.
    I stare out the window, looking at all those bodies again. I imagine being frozen is like being in a coma, but worse.
    I struggle to keep control over my sanity. More questions occur to me, creeping into my mind like dark tendrils of thought.
    “Where do you think all the people running things went?” I whisper to Gadya. “I mean, the scientists or doctors, or police. Or whoever built this place?”
    “They left.” She can barely speak.
    “Maybe there was an accident,” I whisper back. “Everything’s automated, but it’s in shambles, and it’s so cold in this zone. That can’t be normal. Maybe there’s a crack in the cooling mechanism.” I pause. “It just seems like things are still running, but no one’s around to check on them anymore.”
    “Maybe no one’s around because they don’t need to be. Everything’s probably functioning fine.” She laughs bitterly. “It’s just us specimens here. And selection units—whipping us off to get dissected. This place isn’t running by mistake.”
    “But why? Why are we worth testing?”
    The lights on the other side of the window begin to dim again, as the horseshoe lights around us are raised. In a way I’m relieved, because we won’t have to keep staring at the awful sight of ten thousand frozen bodies.
    Then I’m suddenly thinking about something else. Liam.
    My dad’s message carved on the rock meant “Never give up.” He’d want me to find the meaning when there seems to be none.
    Although it seems unlikely, if these bodies are being held alive, maybe there’s some way of unfreezing and resuscitating them before they get shipped off the wheel.
    “Hello?” I call out to the voice, eager to communicate with it again. “Is there a way to find out who—” I break off, trying to reformulate my question. “Is there a way to track individual specimens being held in the archive? Can you do that?”
    “Tracking test subjects is possible through our data link.” A touch-screen panel lights up nearby. I step over to it, followed by a limping Gadya. “Enter the UNA identity number of your required specimen.”
    “We don’t know their identity numbers!” Gadya calls out angrily. “They have names! Not numbers! Liam, Markus, Rika, David!”
    “What about dates of capture?” I ask suddenly. “I mean the date the specimens were ‘harvested.’ Can you search by date?”
    “Affirmative,” the voice replies blithely. “Please use two digits for the day, two for the month, and four digits for the year.”
    Before the voice has finished talking, I’m already punching in numbers for yesterday’s date. 10-20-2032. The day Liam was taken.
    It takes me only a second to input the digits.
    “Processing . . . ,” the voice says. Then it asks, “Male or female?”
    “Male.”
    “Height and weight?”
    Gadya and I guess as best we can, blurting out words, talking over each other.
    “Five eleven—”
    “Wait, six feet—”
    “One hundred fifty pounds—”
    “No, one forty—”
    Then the voice declares, “Possible subject located.” A nearby computer screen flares to life. On it is a blurred photograph of Liam’s face, with a stream of data running up the right-hand side in a dizzying column.
    “That’s him!” I yell. I run to the window, Gadya at my side. “Where is he? Tell us!” I’m sick with excitement. “Is he still in the archive?