Our yacht settles into place at the end of a long pier. One hundred slats of weathered wood, give or take, separate us from the men who will turn the future.
Zhornov’s face is easily recognizable, though they must have done something in all the kingpin propaganda to make him look taller and sleeker. He looks happy, and why shouldn’t he? He is a king in a castle, welcoming more peasants who will prolong his wonderful life. Only a paper cut–thin line of dried blood on his face betrays this image. I imagine one of his various attendants letting a straight-edge razor get a little too dull, cut a little too deep. Deep enough to remind this man he is still human, not deep enough for it to look like anything more than an accident.
The other man has hardly aged a day since his college graduation. Dad never kept many pictures, not until I came along, which is why I can remember the few he had in vivid detail. I remember this man more than all the others, with his wavy blond hair and light blue eyes and long, pointy nose—his creamy tan skin that seems so at odds with the rest of the genes that fought their way through. He has a distinct combination of features that are unlike any I’ve ever seen. Reem is Dutch-Lebanese, Dad told me, when I first noticed the picture. Born and raised in South Africa.
However long it took Dr. Marieke to travel all the way from Cape Town, he looks perfectly well-rested. Sunlight catches all the subtle shades of his hair, shows no wrinkles on his face or in his crisp, pale pink button-down.
They are silent and staring, as if our single-file processional down the pier is more formal than it is. Which, I don’t know. Maybe it is more formal than I realize. We walk like the mind-numbed HoloWolves we are supposed to be, heads held high, eyes seeing but not perceiving, silent amid the sound of waves as they lap at the pier. Pellegrin leads the way, the only one among us who is meant to still have a mind.
“Right on time!” Zhornov’s face looks strange with a smile on it—it is a real smile, too, one that lights his eyes. His gaze rests just past me, at the end of our line: Lonan. They’re obsessed with him, Dad said, back in his office. They want to admire their pet weapon as soon as possible. Just before we lined up to walk this pier, Lonan laced his fingers between mine, only for as long as it took to whisper be strong in my ear.
I should have done the same for him.
“Anton,” Pellegrin says, nodding. “Nice to see you again.”
Zhornov cracks out a burst of laughter that ends in a phlegmy cough. “I’m sure, I’m sure.” He extends a hand, helps Pellegrin from the pier. As if Pellegrin needs help from the pier. It is a gesture that brings bile to my throat, this single small thing that will help Zhornov rest easy in his bed tonight, something to convince himself he’s a good guy.
He turns away without introducing Dr. Marieke and Pellegrin to each other, curling two fingers in the air as if to say follow me.
But the doctor doesn’t turn. “If I may,” he says, with the same sort of gentle-but-assertive manner as my father. “Thank you all for coming.”
Zhornov shifts, eyes him sidelong. Laughs like a wheeze. “You want an introduction?” Suspicion, a challenge. “You haven’t needed an introduction for anyone else on the island.”
Dr. Marieke is calm, doesn’t miss a beat. “They’ve come all this way for my benefit. The least I can do is acknowledge them.”
Perhaps this is his attempt to get our business out of the way early. A handshake, an exchange. My father should have given Pellegrin the bloodlock. You’re the only one he trusts, Pellegrin told me. Unless that was only a half-truth, and he simply didn’t want his own hands anywhere near something so risky.
No matter: Zhornov’s introductions are perfunctory, limited to the doctor and Pellegrin, and he turns him away—claps a hand on Dr. Marieke’s back, as if they are much more familiar than they are—before anything resembling a handshake can happen. Clearly, he’s on guard. And this is a friendly meeting, one he eagerly agreed to, according to Pellegrin and my father.
This is going to be even more difficult than I imagined.
We take a pathway made of perfectly rectangular strips of slate. I count fifty-four before losing track. The pathway leads directly to the door Pellegrin indicated on his napkin, the entry point en route to our final destination. No doubt its simple-looking glass architecture is more structurally complex than it appears.
Zhornov waves a hand. The doors open automatically, perfectly obedient, patient enough that we pass through without increasing our pace even slightly.
Sparkling steel appliances line the long white interior wall, and there is an island countertop in the middle of the room. Persimmons and pomegranates loll on a curved bamboo platter, a red ceramic dish holds fresh eggs in a line, and I see an array of staff members wielding skillets and sharp knives. In the next room over, a bamboo table built for twelve is empty, save for a single seat at the far end. How incredibly lonely, is all I can think.
Zhornov leads us from the bright, naturally lit kitchen and into a maze of hallways, tightly wound as the gray matter inside the human brain. It would be easier than expected to hide in this glass house, if it came down to it.
For one, there are shadows in every place that isn’t directly lit with daylight, like in the deep corners of these interior maze-halls. Dim purple light saves us from pitch-darkness, but they are by no means well lit. It’s obvious this path is meant to be cumbersome for anyone who doesn’t know it by heart.
For another, the walls are glass for a reason—what’s on the outside is inherently more interesting to look at than what’s on the inside.
Lastly, this particular glass house is nearly as empty as a mausoleum. It appears the ghosts who do roam the premises are all tied to specific spaces: the dining room, the laundry, the yard. They keep to their areas, and Zhornov keeps us to everywhere else. It would be the perfect place to perform the transfer, here in the shadows. But Zhornov keeps a tight arm around Dr. Marieke’s shoulders, and any time Pellegrin comes closer than six feet away, he says Space!, like Pellegrin is a dog who performs tricks.
Glorious daylight floods us when we are finally led out of the depths of this place and into an enormous entry hall. The amount of space in this room could hold more than a hundred people, but is used for the enjoyment of one. The ceiling stretches all the way to the top of the estate, and the room is practically as wide as the island itself.
The panoramic view is incredible: I see all the way out to the jagged rock barriers on both sides of the island, surf and then sand, parallel rows of palm trees and tropical flowers that continue straight down the center of the island until there is only ocean at the end.