I trusted her and I trusted this was necessary. If we had the chance, we had to find out what Darren had been doing in the shadows.

I kept a steady pace until we neared the treatment suite. A wide-eyed tech popped from the door. “What’s going—”

Before she could finish, I was blowing past. Hold on tight.

Clock’s ticking. Quanta scrunched her eyes tight and pressed her face against my chest. Lift in three, two…

The doors opened as I skidded to a stop.

“Whoa.” Thane jumped back, dropping his tub of virulent pink broccoli. “Orpheus?”

Him? I asked Quanta.

Do it!

Shifting her weight to one side I swung. The punch took him straight under the jaw. He reeled backward and I winced. Of all the people in the Citadel.

Quanta hopped free and grabbed his hand, pressing it to the scanner. “Lilac. Now!”

I hit the button.

Thane groaned. “The hell, Orpheus?”

“I’ll make it up.” Later. Possibly.

I grabbed Quanta’s hand and we both stared, breathless at the doors. Only one more floor—

The elevator shuddered to a stop as a klaxon started up.

Pull them open, Quanta said. We jumped into motion in unison, prying the doors apart. We’d stopped short of the floor, but as soon as there was room to squeeze through, I helped Quanta down and then slipped out behind her.

Hurry! She grabbed my hand and pulled. Right there.

I spotted the door she wanted and sprinted ahead, carefully helping her along. She kept pace, fueled by pure adrenaline.

Door opening in three… Two…

One.

I knocked aside the startled researcher who’d just broken the lock-down protocol. Quanta slipped past and I bolted us inside. That should buy as a few more seconds of freedom.

Quanta sucked in a breath.

A creeping awareness turned my head to the center of the room.

Dozens of researchers turned to face us, some half standing in shock at our appearance. Ten of them at first count, each sitting at work tables or consoles—but they were the smallest part of our new problem.

Darren’s research. A glass wall was the only thing separating us from…

Bile rose in my throat.

Tanks of viscous fluid. Bodies floating, connected to wires.

Clones.

In all stages of maturity. Eyes closed. Alive, but dormant. Each face was just similar enough to Quanta’s that horror clenched my diaphragm, making it hard to get air.

“This can’t—” Quanta’s voice choked off. No one challenged her as she stumbled to press against the glass.

The closest tank held what might’ve passed for a ten-year-old version of her. Its body twisted, the fingers too long and the torso too short, covered in red, patchy skin.

An infant floated in the next tank, it’s limbless body rocking back and forth.

Tank after tank.

Forty of them.