False Memory by Dan Krokos Read Free Book Online Page A

spent over a decade training with Peter. Peter knows you. And we need to see what you can and can’t do. So you go.”
    “Yes, sir,” I say automatically, no smart-ass undertone.
    He claps his hands together. Eyes flitting from me to Peter and back again. “Good. Fantastic. Please return them home. Don’t come back until you do.”
    He leaves us alone. The door shuts as I take my last bite.
    Peter stands up, all business, wiping the corners of his mouth. “Get dressed.”
    At first I’m confused because I’m already wearing clothes. Then I open my dresser and see what he’s talking about.
    My uniform is made of two parts.
    The first layer is body armor. A black one-piece that reminds me of a wet suit with scales. The fabric is woven with something Peter doesn’t want to elaborate on. He just wants me to put the suit on so we can get moving. So I do. In the bathroom. I slide my limbs into the stiff but still flexible fabric, feeling somewhat like a cyborg. It covers my feet and ends at the top of my neck, leaving my hands exposed. The suit contracts slightly, hugging my bare skin.
    That’s the first layer.
    The second is a pair of regular jeans and a black longsleeved T-shirt. Once they’re on, it’s impossible to see the suit underneath. I have a pair of soft black leather boots under my bed, with socks stuffed in them. I slip them over my armored feet while Peter grabs a shirt like mine, only dark blue.
    “Weapons?” I stop. Putting on the armor made my thoughts go there automatically. Suddenly I’m excited about weapons .
    Peter tugs the shirt over his head, smiling. “You remember something?”
    “No, I... This is weird.”
    “Good weird?” He sits on his bunk and laces up his boots.
    “I think so.”
    “Just wait,” he says.
    We enter the corridor and follow the glowing ceiling back to the elevator, passing no one. The place feels empty, like a crypt. I’m giddy by the time we’re in the elevator. I don’t know what comes next, and it excites me. I feel like I was made for this.
    “I hope you remember how to ride a bike,” Peter says, once we reach the garage.
    Two motorcycles sit in the corner, tucked behind a massive olive-green Humvee. They follow the black motif. The labels have been removed, but somehow I know they’re Ducati Superbikes. I fight the urge to share with Peter every time I remember something.
    Faint rubber marks stain the concrete next to the bikes. Two are missing.
    Peter passes me a helmet. “If not,” he says, “you can always ride with me.” He doesn’t look at me when he offers.
    “I’m sure I remember.” Not that the idea of riding behind him is completely repulsive, or repulsive at all, just...I don’t know. I can ride my own bike.
    I pull my hair back into a quick ponytail and push the helmet over my head. Peter starts his bike and its growl fills the small building. He pulls a chunky watch out of his pocket and buckles it on his left wrist, then messes with it while the bikes fill the garage with the sharp tang of exhaust. Finally, he puts it in gear and I do the same.
    I follow him into the gray morning, down the bumpy path to the main road. The ground is uneven but I dart around the depressions easily; apparently I was really good at this too.
    Peter turns right, to the south. He talks to me through a speaker in my helmet. “I’ve been tracking Noah and Olive. They rode west for a while, to Indiana, but they stopped in Indianapolis. Should take less than five hours to get there.”
    “Why?”
    His voice crackles through again. “Why did they stop? Who knows. Maybe they’re tired. Or maybe they found the tracking devices I implanted and took them out.”
    He swerves around a Mustang and cuts back in before a truck coming the other way can obliterate him. I keep pace, enjoying the wind pushing against me and the way the bike moves with simple corrections of my body.
    “The same device I have? Why track us?”
    He looks over his shoulder at me, but I