The Search for Sam by Pittacus Lore Read Free Book Online Page B

and the slab comes out with the same hydraulic
     whoosh as before.
    From where I’m sitting I can’t see One’s body. Zakos presses a few buttons on the
     edge of One’s slab, then presses the console again. The slab whooshes shut.
    “You don’t need …” I start, then catch myself before I call her One. “You don’t need
     to connect the body to me?”
    “No,” he says, with professional pride. “All of the containment pods are linked to
     this mainframe terminal,” he says, pointing at the largest monitor. “Everything besides
     the pods’ hydraulics are controlled through here: brain scans, vitals, preservation
     protocols …”
    “Do you have other bodies in there?” I ask.
    “Yes,” he says. “Quite a few. Some of them are unaffiliated mortals I’ve used for
     experimentation. The rest of them are Greeters.”
    Zakos, oblivious to the fact that I’m a traitor to the Mogadorian cause, explains
     to me that when the Loric were first scouting for a planet where they could hide from
     the Mogadorians, they made contact with a few scattered mortals. The Mogadorians captured
     these humans almost ten years ago and subjected them to a series of interrogations.
     However, Mogadorians knew next to nothing about earthling psychology or behavior back
     then, and at that point our interrogation techniques were quite crude. Some of these
     “Greeters” caved to Mogadorian interrogation, but it was quickly discovered the intel
     they gave—about the Loric’s locations, what they told the Greeters upon contact—was
     often faulty. Because of this, my people began an ongoing research endeavor that used
     complex brain-mapping technology to find a more accurate means of extracting information.
     In other words, rather than asking for it, we tried to find a way to take it.
    “And, as a matter of fact, Anu’s experiment with you was an offshoot of that research.
     Unfortunately it failed, but I was intrigued. The procedure you are about to undergo
     represents a massive refinement of his work.”
    I can tell that Zakos thinks this little history lesson is complete, but I want to
     know more.
    “And you’ve kept these Greeters alive this whole time?”
    Zakos gives a breezy laugh. “Not exactly. We’ve raked their brains so thoroughly trying
     to extract information about the Garde that all but one of them have perished. Of
     course we’re keeping the others preserved, should our technology advance to the point—”
    “Who lived?” I ask, interrupting him, steering him back to information I know One
     will want, should both of us survive the procedure.
    Dr. Zakos looks at me silently for a moment. For a second, I worry that I’ve raised
     his suspicions.
    Instead, he impishly raises an eyebrow. “Want to see?”
    He dashes over to a panel next to another tile and opens the containment pod. After
     the mist clears, I crane my neck to get a better look.
    I see a handsome, solidly built middle-aged man. His skin is shockingly white from
     being in containment for so long: it’s practically the color of vatborn skin. But
     otherwise he looks healthy. His eyes are closed.
    “Just one moment,” Zakos says, pressing a few buttons inside the pod. Then Zakos leans
     over the man.
    “Malcolm Goode?” he says, addressing him gently, like a normal human doctor addressing
     a normal human patient. “How’s it going in there?”
    Malcolm Goode opens his eyes.
    I feel a chill, a wave of nauseating pity for this poor human, trapped in a cold box
     for years on end.
    “Hello,” he says, looking up at Dr. Zakos with an expression of utter guilelessness
     and trust. It’s like he has no idea how much time has passed, or what he’s been subjected
     to. “I seem to have forgotten where I am,” he says, smiling innocently. “Could you
     tell me where I am?”
    Dr. Zakos only chuckles in response. “Well,” he says, addressing me. “You get the
     idea.”
    And with that he reaches over to the panel, presses