Chapter 30 Working On it
Chapter 30 Working On it
Nyla POV
"Are you there?" I typed into the handheld device, my fingers shaking so badly I almost missed the keys and I hit send before I could think too much about whether I should and I waited and the screen blinked and two minutes later one word appeared. Yes. Just yes. I stared at it for what felt like hours, frozen, mouth open, not knowing if I should scream or cry or both or just sit there staring at that word like it contained every possibility and every risk and every hope all at once and finally I typed again, fingers moving faster, more urgent. I will not leave without her. And I hit send and the room was quiet and the screen blinked and the response came back slower this time. Understood. Adjusting. And I said out loud because I had to hear the words spoken even if no one else was there, I said, “You’re doing this? You’re actually doing this for me?”
No answer. I hugged the device to my chest and whispered, “Thank you.” And I could feel my body shaking with anticipation and fear and everything in between and I whispered again, “I’m ready, I am ready for whatever comes next. We try harder this time”
Morning came too soon, light spilling through the small slit in the window, and Dr. Voss arrived like she had for any normal procedure, presenting herself to the technician outside the room like routine, like everything was ordinary, like we were just part of the schedule, and when the door closed behind the technician she looked at me and said, “The shaft system has a lateral branch that Marcus did not map because he did not know she was there.”
I swallowed hard, feeling my throat dry. “So it reaches her?”
“Yes,” she said. “But moving her will require more than just access. The corridor needs wheelchair clearance and someone familiar with her medical needs.”
I looked at her. “You’re coming?”
“Yes,” she said. “Not just to release the door. All the way out. I’m coming with you.”
I blinked. “Why now? After eleven years?”
She looked down, shoulders stiff. “For eleven years I told myself I was staying to protect the subjects, to minimize harm, to document everything. And I believed it. I convinced myself it was enough. But the night Owen cleared the harvesting suite and I saw equipment laid out for a woman young enough to be your age, I understood that documentation is not protection. It is participation with better handwriting. I cannot do that anymore. I cannot watch and do nothing. Not when it is her. Not when it is your mother.”
I said nothing because I did not have words that could express the relief, the fear, the gratitude, the anger, the panic all at once and she just nodded and we sat there in the quiet, the kind of quiet that buzzes with things unsaid but understood, and I whispered, “Thank you. Thank you for finally choosing her.”
She nodded again. “We move carefully. Every step is calculated. Every movement matters. But I will be with you.”
Later that afternoon Owen sent the escort, one of the usual staff, and I followed silently through the corridors, every step deliberate, every muscle tense, until we reached a small conference room I had not been in before, and I realized I had memorized every previous conference room, every layout, every desk, every panel and now none of that helped because this room was new and unfamiliar and it smelled like new electronics and furniture and I sat down and tried to focus and Owen came in with two men, the same two I had seen in the corridor outside my cell the other day, strangers, not staff, not anyone I knew, and he introduced them as research partners and no names were given and I watched their eyes scan me, watch me, measure me, evaluate me silently before they even spoke.
The questions started immediately, clinical, probing, calculating. “How long have you been at Helix?” one asked and I answered, precise, measured, careful, not letting my voice betray my feelings. “What is your daily routine?” the other asked, and I listed it step by step, each moment memorized, each answer rehearsed in my head and repeated perfectly, and I studied their faces, their micro-expressions, searching for weakness, searching for the truth behind the neutral professional masks they wore.
“What is your health history?” The first one asked and I answered honestly but carefully, noting how they nodded at details and how their hands moved slightly when they wrote something down, not looking at the paper but at me, evaluating every pause, every hesitation, every word. I noticed the corporate lanyard tucked in one man’s breast pocket, the letters partially visible, and I memorized the two letters I could see, storing them in my mind like a puzzle piece I could use later because these men were not just here for Helix, they were outsiders, people invested, and whatever Owen was selling, I was part of the product. I could feel it in the way he smiled and nodded, and I realized the timeline for everything had compressed, that every move I made from here on mattered, and Nyla, my mother, the shaft, the escape, it all depended on patience, precision, and careful deception.
I answered every question, cooperative, alert, observant, and finally Owen dismissed them without names, without acknowledgment beyond the room door closing behind them, and I sat on the floor after returning to my room, the familiar floor under my hands, the quiet enveloping me, and I reached for the handheld device again, fingers shaking from adrenaline, from fear, from anticipation, from relief, and I typed one simple message. Tomorrow is better than two days. I sent it before I could think about whether it was too early, before I could hesitate, and almost immediately the response came back. Working on it. And I whispered, “Thank you. Thank you. We are moving forward.”
I leaned back against the wall, eyes half-closed, imagining the shaft, imagining the corridors, imagining my mother, imagining Dr. Voss with me, imagining every step, every careful calculated movement, every moment of silence and action that would be required, and I said, “You’re really doing this? You’re really helping us?”
The device blinked once. Working on it. And I whispered, “I don’t know how to say it but I trust you. I trust whoever is on the other side. I trust you to make this work.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, breathing in the quiet, feeling the weight of the decision that lay ahead, the night that would come, the next steps, the risk, the hope, all tangled together, and I said aloud, “I will not fail. I cannot fail. Not now. Not ever. My mother is counting on me.”
The room stayed quiet, but I could feel it responding, like energy thrumming through the device, a sense that this was not just a message but a conversation, a bond forming silently, urgently, across the wires and frequencies, and I whispered, “Tomorrow. It has to be tomorrow. I cannot wait two days. I will not.”
I typed again, fingers flying, “We start tomorrow. No delays. Understood.”
Almost immediately, the reply came. Working on it. And I said, “Yes. Yes, that’s what I needed to hear. That’s what we need.”
I held the device close, heart pounding, chest tight with anticipation and fear and relief, whispering over and over, “We are moving. We are going to move. I can’t wait. I can’t wait to see her. I can’t wait to see my mother. I can’t wait for Voss to be there. I can’t wait for the shaft. I can’t wait.”
The door to my room clicked and I looked up. “Who’s there?” I asked, voice trembling slightly but firm, aware, alert, ready.
No one answered. I whispered, “It’s okay, it’s just me. Just me, and we are going to do this. Tomorrow, not two days.”
I sat there, holding the device, imagining the corridor, the shaft, Dr. Voss with me, my mother, the path, the timing, every calculation running through my mind like a river I could not stop, and I whispered again, “We are ready. I am ready. Tell me we are ready.”
The device blinked once more. Working on it. And I whispered, “Then we start. Tomorrow. Everything tomorrow.”
I held it close to my chest, feeling the pulse of it, the weight of every step, the fear and hope tangled together, and I said, “We can do this. We have to. For her, for all of us, we have to.”
Then I typed one last message before closing my eyes for a moment. “Tomorrow. For her.” And the device responded immediately. Working on it. And I whispered, looking at it like it could hear me, “Yes. Tomorrow. For her. I promise.”