Prototype

Book 0: Archetype Series

by M.D. Waters

Genres: Action & Adventure; Science Fiction Romance; Sci-fi Action & Adventure

Synopsis

The stunning debut that began with Archetype- and has readers buzzing-concludes in Prototype, when a woman's dual pasts lock onto a collision course, threatening her present and future.

Emma looks forward to the day when she can let go of her past-both of them. After more than a year on the run, with clues to her parents' whereabouts within her grasp, she may finally find a place to settle down. Start a new life. Maybe even create new memories with a new family.

But the past rises to haunt her and to make sure there's nowhere on the planet she can hide. Declan Burke wants his wife back, and with a little manipulation and a lot of reward money, he's got the entire world on his side. Except for the one man she dreads confronting the most: Noah Tucker.

Emma returns to face what she's done but finds that the past isn't the problem. It's the present-and the future it represents. Noah has moved on and another woman is raising their daughter.

In the shocking conclusion to M.D. Waters's spectacular debut, Emma battles for her life and her freedom, tearing down walls and ripping off masks to reveal the truth. She's decided to play their game and prove she isn't the woman they thought she was. Even if it means she winds up dead. Or worse, reborn.

Release date: July 24, 2014

Publisher: Plume

Print pages: 384

Sample

CHAPTER 1

I float in nothing.

The tether binding my incorporeal form keeps me from floating into the abyss that is arctic and as black as pitch. The restraint is also fragile. One wrong move and I will have nothing to hold me.

Wake up, Emma. It is only a dream.

Not a dream, though. My worst nightmare.

The abyss I float in threatens death.

• • •

I shoulder through the thick crowd of men, clinging to the straps of my backpack. Sweat streams down my spine. Gusts of wind have pulled strands of hair free from my knotted bun and they stick to my neck. Dust clouds the area, kicked up by children playing to the side of the uneven cobbled road and by the marching of heavy military boots. Militia patrol Zirahuén’s street market to thwart any trouble in the otherwise friendly haggling system.

I keep my head down and sunglasses on to avoid eye contact. Any sign of interest on my part makes men too aggressive, too hands-on. It did not take me long to learn this in the year and four months that I have been free. Not every country’s government is regimented to the slavery of women like the eastern half of America is, but that does not mean women are not wanted.

Needed, actually.

I keep my wedding ring—the ring Declan Burke gave me in the weeks before he died—on a chain around my neck. Sliding the set of diamonds on my finger has saved me multiple times. If men believe I am married, most tend to back off out of respect for my “husband.”

The ring is the last of the jewelry I took from my old home, and I hate to part with it, but it is time. I am nearly out of money and have nothing to show for it. In the year I have searched for my parents, I have come up with only one promising lead: the name of a man who lives in Mexico, of all places. Zirahuén, Michoacán, to be exact. A village beside Lake Zirahuén in the central highlands of Mexico.

The man I seek is ex-resistance like my parents, who seem to be nothing more than ghosts. After escaping a prison in America’s eastern territory more than twenty years ago, they disappeared without a trace. For all I know, they could have died. Either way, I have to know what happened to them. Maybe if I find them alive—I refuse to believe they are dead—I can finally figure out where I fit in this world.

Knowing I am Emma Wade—ex–resistance major, wife of Noah Tucker, mother to Adrienne—does not change the fact that I am still a clone carrying Her soul. That those I left behind could not bring themselves to accept me for who I am. I am forced to make a new life for myself, and this is all I hope to do once I find my parents.

I politely decline the hagglers stepping in my path on my way to the area selling produce. I am told the man I seek sells fruit, but this is all I know. Three blocks into the market, I find a row of five carts selling various types.

Stopping, I ignore the shoulders brushing past. Rubbing the tight muscles in the back of my neck, I blow out a gust of air. Five carts. Five men. And I do not speak Spanish.

I pass the first three because the men are too young to be the man I seek. The fourth is a man who cannot be younger than eighty, speaks no English, and cannot stop staring at my breasts . . . or the ring lying between them. I know he could be the right man, but my instincts say definitely not.

One glance at the last cart reveals another young man, late teens, and my stomach falls. Peter swore I would find him here, and though I spent only two weeks on his ranch in Montana, I trust him more than I have trusted anyone in a very long time.

The ex–resistance general took me in at my lowest point. A time when I was beginning to believe I would never find my parents. When thoughts of the family I left behind clawed at my guilt. But also a time when my abyss dreams had progressed into a true nightmare.

The peace I found with Peter could not have come at a better time. More than that, he gave me hope again with a single name: Cesar Ruiz.

An older man exchanges places with the young man behind the last cart and my heart leaps. I approach the cart, which houses red apples. Flies swarm the bruised skin, removing any appeal. The man behind the rotting wood wears a wide-brimmed hat and has a shock of salt-and-pepper hair flaring around his deeply wrinkled face. He rubs wide, stubby fingers over his mustache while studying me with dark eyes.

I remove my sunglasses and hang them from the front of my tank top. “Cesar Ruiz?”

Please speak English.

The man shakes his head and speaks rapidly in Spanish. He also avoids looking me in the eye.

I hold up my hands to stop him and try to regulate the air that has just become trapped in my lungs. This has to be him. “I do not understand. Do you speak English?”

The young man from before sidles up beside me. His black hair is pulled taut in a low-hanging ponytail. “What is it you need, American?”

“I am looking for someone. Cesar Ruiz?”

“Not today, lady. Tomorrow.”

The boy’s eyes shift quickly to the old man, and I know intuitively I have found the right place. This would not be the first time ex-resistance has lied to me about their true identity. Even in a whole other country than the Americas, they would not want to be found by the wrong person. I have to be careful not to scare him off.

“My name is Emma Wade,” I tell him. “He knew my parents, Lily and Stephen. I am only trying to find them.”

I finish with a pointed look at the old man. His head is tilted in a way that says he listens, but he swats at the hovering flies in an effort to deflect suspicion. I know this tactic and am not fooled.

Instead of nodding or giving me the brush-off, the young boy picks up an apple from the cart. “Not today,” he repeats, squinting into the sun. He tosses the fruit in the air and catches it in his other hand, then rolls it between his palms.

The next time the apple flies in the air, I snatch it away. “Tell him I have come a long way and will not leave without the answers I came for.”

The boy opens his mouth to respond when the old man steps around the cart, hands raised. “It is okay, Miguel.”

I let out a relieved sigh. That did not take as long as I expected. “You are Cesar?”

He casts a furtive glance around. “Not for a long time. How did you hear of me?”

“An old friend of yours named Peter. I ran into him in Montana. He made me groom a lot of horses before telling me where to find you.”

Cesar nods toward the shade of an alley behind his cart, shouting orders in Spanish to Miguel. Once we stand between the buildings, he glances around to determine if we are alone.

He removes his hat and fans his face. “You are resistance?”

“No.” Not exactly a lie. Originally, yes, but I am not Her anymore. He does not need to hear my complicated story. “I have friends working against Burke Enterprises.”

His eyes widen. “This will not be easy. Not after—”

“—the cloning. I know.”

I am curious if Noah was as surprised as I was when the government practically begged Burke Enterprises to begin a cloning program on a much grander scale. They even went as far as to erase the charges against Arthur Travista for the murder of the two hosts of their first successful clones. Ruby and Lydia refused to press charges, anyway. And why would they? They are alive and well with healthy babies. A miracle of science.

No one knew the truth about me, thank God. The few friends Declan trusted with this secret have thus far kept quiet, believing Declan and I were kidnapped by the resistance. At least that is the story they tell the media. With the security system—put in place by Noah himself—there is no way they did not see my fight with Declan. I am not sure how far out the view went, but they know I was the last to see him alive, at the very least.

I shiver, suddenly cold despite the humidity. Declan will forever stare at me from the cold depths of that lake.

“Did you know my parents?” I ask.

“Stephen and Lily Wade, you say?”

I nod.

A single round shoulder lifts as he looks down the alley and into the market, where so far no one pays us any attention. “I knew a lot of men who went by the name Stephen, but no one by the last name Wade. The only Lily I knew was a Lily Garrett. Young woman with no husband. No children. Our time in the southeast region was short. It is possible she could have gotten married after I left.”

My heartbeat races in opposition to the plummeting feeling in my stomach. “Peter said—”

“Pete and I have been around a long time. Have known a lot of people.” He taps his temple. “We have good, long memories. If I once knew a couple by this name, I would, and could, tell you.”

I should feel numb to these dead ends by now, but I am not. I clench my jaw and turn to hide the tears brimming in my eyes. They are more a sign of my mounting frustration than anything else. This and I am exhausted from the long day of traveling to get here. Crossing Mexico’s border cost me a lot of my remaining funds; then I had to travel by aerotrain for half a day before reaching a working teleporter. All for nothing.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of three pitched dings in the street. Cesar and I step out of the alley and look up at the holograph image of an emergency broadcast filling the sky.

The blond male newscaster is American, according to his accent. The Spanish translation runs along the bottom of the holo-sky stream. I stare past the reporter in the video feed to the building behind him, a flutter of nerves winging through my stomach. The main office building of Burke Enterprises towers above all of Richmond, Virginia, a grand structure of glass and steel.

“Must be about the clones,” Cesar says with a scowl deepening the wrinkles on his face. “Burke Enterprises wants the world to know how important they are.”

These same broadcasts air in America. I had not expected them to stretch to other countries, but I should not be surprised. Infertility is a worldwide issue, and no doubt other countries are salivating for Dr. Travista’s “cure.” The one he keeps to himself and that other scientists are unable to replicate.

No one has figured out how the elusive doctor managed to transfer an entire soul into a cloned body capable of carrying multiple pregnancies. According to Dr. Travista’s reports, we clones can even accept donated organs now; we are no longer as fragile as our predecessors were.

In a newsroom, a dashing man with too-white teeth speaks into the camera. “. . . a while since we’ve heard from the creator himself, Dr. Arthur Travista, so do you think he’s making a rare appearance today, Tim?”

The camera switches back to the man in front of Burke Enterprises. A strong wind tunnels through and lifts his carefully placed hair.“That’s a good question, Isaac, and the consensus here is that, yes, we will indeed be hearing from Dr. Travista today. It’s possible he wants to add to the recent statement released from the White House regarding the rising number of successful pregnancies since the birth of a daughter from the Original Clone herself, Ruby Godfrey, just this past winter.”

The man, Tim, pauses and tilts his head as if listening to someone speaking in an earpiece. He glances behind him and says, “It appears the moment has come, and I am told, Isaac, that it is not Dr. Arthur Travista. Let’s tune in now to where the surprise speaker approaches the podium.”

The massive crowd surrounding the dais goes deathly quiet. Camera flashes burst sporadically as finely dressed men spill through glass revolving doors. In the center of this protective cluster is a tall man with cropped dark hair, his head bowed just enough to hide from the camera. Despite his hidden face, I know this man too intimately to be fooled. Yet it is impossible.

Knees weak, I brace a hand on the corner of the tan and red building to my left. This cannot be real. But I do not imagine the broad set of shoulders or the sure gait of the man who demands respect from everyone around him.

Declan Burke reaches the podium and looks into the roaring audience. Flashbulbs erupt in a frenzy as the photographers race to capture every angle of the man long believed captive of the resistance.

Off-camera, Tim gives the audience a brief rundown of the past year in an exuberant tone: Declan’s disappearance, how without his financial aid and support we would not have the promise of a thriving future. If Dr. Travista is the “father” of cloning, Declan is definitely the “godfather.”

Declan raises his hands for silence, casting the throng his devastating smile. Even now my heart skips. Despite our last days together, I loved this man too much for my own good. While our world requires men to think of their women as possessions, Declan treated me with more kindness and love than I deserved. His patience in those first months of my clone life went above and beyond what any other man would have deemed necessary. It has taken me a long time to admit this, but I am the woman I am now because of him. My past, what little I remember, has not defined me.

He has.

Declan tugs down on the dark blue suit jacket he wears—my favorite color on him—while he waits for the crowd to calm. Meanwhile, I study the small changes in him. He wears the shadow of a goatee and tightly trimmed hair. His crowd-pleasing smile does not reach his eyes. He is also thinner than I remember.

“It has been a long year,” he says in his deep voice. Every syllable raises goose bumps along my skin. “A year of many successes for the human race. God willing, the success will only continue to grow.”

His expression sobers and he shifts his weight. “I am only sorry it was a year I could not celebrate with you. For me, it was a year of fear at the hands of the resistance, followed by several months of recovery. A year I will never get back, but a year I intend to be repaid,”he finishes with a fist on the podium.

Arms rise in the air and obscure the perfect shot of Declan, who waits in silence while the men cheer. A taut line stretches his full mouth. This matches the fire in his eyes perfectly.

“I came here today not to discuss my harrowing year with these so-called freedom fighters but to beg you, the people of every nation watching this broadcast, to help me.”

Declan’s gaze falls, and a look of sheer loss paints his expression. The strong hands that know every inch of my skin slide up and grip the edges of the podium. His chest rises and falls hard beneath his fine suit.

Then his gaze lifts, and there lies a heat that had not been there prior. Through the camera, past all the miles between us, the intensity of his stare sears into me. As if he sees me. As if there is no distance between us at all.

“The resistance took my wife, Emma. And I want her back.”

CHAPTER 2

My breath catches on the heels of his announcement. Why would he do this? Revenge? Have I not paid enough?

Declan continues, though his voice is nearly drowned out by my heartbeat rushing in my ears. “I’m offering a reward in the amount of a hundred thousand dollars for any information leading to the rescue of my wife, Emma. But,” he says in a sharp tone that emphasizes the word, “bring her to me alive, and you will be a millionaire ten times over.”

My picture flashes across the hologram along with a phone number. It is an old picture—my hair was chin length then—taken from the showing of my art in a gallery. My first and last show.

Cesar pushes me into the wall, where I hit with a thunk. Pieces of the weathered surface fall and pebble around our feet. He grips my throat in his hand. For an old man, he is strong and fast. “What is your real purpose for seeking me out, Emma Burke, wife of the richest man in the Americas?”

I gasp for what little air his hand allows. “He lies. I escaped. Thought he was dead. I swear.”

The old man backhands me, and I stumble into the cobbled street with a ringing ear and throbbing cheek. Men face me from every direction. Thanks to my image poised over their heads like a beacon, I am all too recognizable to this poor village.

They glance between me and the picture, and the potential threat urges me to take an unsteady step back. Then the whispering begins. Pointing. I take another step, my heart crashing against my sternum like a caged animal.

Go, go, go.

The men converge on me like a swarm of buzzing insects. Spinning, I jump on a stack of produce crates resting against the side of a one-story building. I pull myself to a red-shingled rooftop and roll to my back. I take one heaving breath before getting to my feet and crossing to the other end of the angled roof.

I jump to another building, this one with a flat top, that sits slightly lower to the ground. I am to the middle when several men jump down behind me. One of the men is fast and snags me by the pack I wear. I drop to my backside and scrape my palms on the concrete surface.

He reaches for me again. I swing a leg at his ankles and sweep his feet out from under him. By the time I get back up, the others have reached me. I nail one with an elbow shot. Another with a head butt that brings tears to my eyes. White dots float in my vision. Unsure I will be able to aim accurately again, I slide out of the grabby hands and run for the side of the roof.

I jump to the ground and roll in a thick patch of grass. The edge of the village is not far, and beyond that, a collage of pine, oak, and ash trees. I can lose myself in the sprawling hills of Michoacán. What I should do after that is anyone’s guess.

The majority of my followers quit their pursuit before the village limits. They do not run every day like I do. I run because I must outrun them all, a lesson I learned from one of my most useful memories of last year.

I do not look back but instead listen to the dropping off of footfalls and, according to their tones, frustrated curses. I run into the trees and lose several more. Well into the first mile, I reach the entrance to a cemetery. Stone steps lead up the steep hillside. Aging statues of angels, heads bowed in prayer, frame either side of the entrance. Ivy winds up their ethereal bodies. Loose green leaves carpet each step. The sun shines through dense foliage, casting heavenly fingers around the blessed area.

I duck behind large headstones, hoping to lose whoever still follows. When I think I have been out of sight for a while, I push through the door of a mausoleum and close myself inside. Dust particles float in shafts of sunlight from small windows near the top. Three stone coffins fill the space. Dried flowers rise stiffly from dust-coated ceramic vases.

Voices sound close outside and I scramble to the nearest coffin to test the lid. The stone is heavy but scrapes aside with little trouble. A putrid and dank-scented cloud encapsulates the air around me. My gag reflex hitches and I cannot bring myself to look down at first. The raised calls outside grow closer, though, and force me into action.

Whoever the woman was, she has completed the decomposition process, making things easier. She wears the remains of a full-length white dress, pearls at her throat, and a diamond ring to rival mine.

I could sell those.

I grip the coarse stone edge and shake my head. I cannot believe I just considered robbing a dead woman’s grave. There are no circumstances that dire. Not even mine. Besides, I will owe her once I do what I am about to do.

Carefully, I push the remains aside and climb in. The interior smell is nowhere near as bad as the initial release, but it is still awful. I hold my breath and exert all my strength into shifting the heavy lid back into place. Soon, not even a slip of light passes through.

My next draw of breath drags in the foul air and pulls tears from my eyes. Oh God, there is a dead woman next to me. Dead. I want to cover my face but I dare not move. A sharp hip bone sinks into my back like a knife. The back of my head lies on a bed of ribs. I am living inside my nightmare. Trapped by the infinite dark with death at my back.

Outside, the unmistakable sound of the door opening makes me stiffen. Two men speaking in rapid Spanish are inside the mausoleum. The scuffling of shoes against concrete echoes in the space. I hear them travel between the coffins, taking their time. I hold my breath when one of them speaks directly over me, his voice muffled. Three taps, like palm slaps, sound on the lid. I flinch, then lie frozen, unable to do so much as blink. Soon, every muscle quivers beyond my control.

After what feels like an eternity, the sounds disappear, but I never hear the door close. Is the coffin lid on crooked? Was there dust on the floor to track my footprints? I do not remember. All I know is that someone could still be inside, waiting me out. Despite how badly I want to be free, I fear leaving the confines of this coffin more.

My heart drums, and sweat beads along my brow. Every muscle in my body aches from lying so absolutely still. I crane my neck to better listen for stragglers and jostle the rib cage under me. The skull loosens and rolls, then settles near the crown of my head.

A whimper escapes my throat and I slap a palm over my mouth. Humid breath travels across my knuckles in quick gusts. I try very hard not to think about the trauma that would have loosened the woman’s skull from her spine, but in the dark, it is hard to think of anythingelse.

I listen hard past the rush of blood in my ears and still hear nothing but dead space. But I have to be patient. A few more minutes with a skeleton win out over even one second back in Declan’s hands.

The time passes in slow, tense increments, and eventually I make the decision to check the room. I ease into position, careful of the loose bones lying behind me, and push. My adrenaline has slowed, and the strength I need to move the stone has waned dramatically. I cannot make the lid budge even a little.

My eyes widen and black dots fill my vision. I want to scream but can only mouth the word “no” into the space that now feels as if it closes in around me. I bite my lower lip and push again. The following scraping sound explodes in the silence and I startle back into the skeleton. A bone stabs my back. I lurch up and hit my head on the coffin lid. The dull throb manages to slow me down, but only for a moment.

I need out.

I heave my entire upper body against the lid and force it aside. Cool, fresh air accompanies a blinding light. I scramble up and topple over the side. I hit the ground with a thud, sending a jolt of pain into my hip and down my leg.

Leaning against the coffin’s dais, I drag in every blessedly fresh breath. My eyes water in the sunlight, but after several blinks, I conclude that I am alone. I reach out and shut the door. They could still be out there, which is the only reason I have not run. If I stay where I am long enough, I will walk from here rather than run.

Except Declan’s broadcast has ensured that I will always be running. He essentially put a price on my head that no one can or will refuse. In only a few minutes, and from an entirely different country, Declan Burke managed to snatch my freedom right out from under me. How can I continue my search now? Anyone who is or was resistance will assume I am a spy, and everyone else stands ready to turn me over for a pile of cash. I will face danger and difficulty no matter where I go.

Not everywhere.

I sigh and rub my temples. I cannot accept that running back to Noah is the only option I have. But if there is another, I do not know what it is. I would gladly go back to Montana, but putting Peter in Declan’s line of sight is the last thing I want to do. No one else I have met has opened their home to me.

Damn it.

I stand and brush dust from my backside. “Just get out of Mexico, Emma. Worry about the rest later.”

• • •

Getting out of Mexico is as simple as sneaking into the back of a cargo truck bound for Arizona. I avoid plenty of close calls by hiding my hair under a scarf. My sunglasses and lack of eye contact do the rest.

Twenty-four hours have not given me a better outcome to my issue. Even if it were a question of money, I could not simply sell my wedding ring to the first buyer. Not without being recognized. My luck got me across the border but will not hold out much longer.

Despite all that, I am still against asking Noah for help. After the way I left, the only help he may give is a hand back out. He probably despises me. He should. Even if I am wrong and he holds no resentment toward me, there is another truth holding me back. I am a coward and cannot face the guilt behind my own actions. Seeing him, seeing Adrienne, will be a glaring reminder of my mistakes.

I have one last option left, though it is not one I look forward to. But I am resolved to try. I waste no time and find the nearest public teleporter. The outside of the booth says ARIZONA PUBLIC TRANSPORT in black letters. Warnings below spell out the dangers of trying to port unlawfully out of the country. As the booth is an instrument that turns you into a billion tiny pieces, I would not risk unlawfully goinganywhere.

Inside, the silver floor gives under my weight, and my stats—total mass, water, and body fat, as well as additional calculations based on the clothes I wear—appear in glowing red lights on the clear surface. Once the calculations are finished, a keypad appears. With shaking fingers, I type in the port number, breathe deep of the spearmint masking the rancid scent of the numbing agent, and watch the Arizona street melt away.

The second I step onto Las Vegas Boulevard, the desert sun envelopes me. The passersby on the main strip ignore me despite how I must look after my time in Mexico. This is exactly why I chose this destination. In Las Vegas, everyone is too concerned with their own bad luck to see mine. Even though the broadcast played everywhere, I have no reason to believe it has gone viral enough to make much of a difference yet. Even if it has, the gamblers are too focused on their game of choice, getting drunk, or sleeping. The crowd, too, is also so thick that to the video cameras I am merely one face among thousands. Even if Declan monitors the footage, the odds of finding me are slim.

I slide my large sunglasses on and duck my head as I weave through the men. Several slow their pace outside glass-encased booths where beautiful, scantily clad women showcase their goods. The women wink and smile seductively. They run their hands over their bodies to draw attention to their best assets. Dollar amounts flash on the glass when a man stops to look at the merchandise.

Marijuana merchants entice potential customers with promises of a good high from mobile stands they maneuver through the throng. Neon-colored tubes sprout from the top like flowers. Screens on the stands stream the names of the weed for sale. Blue Cheese. Amnesia Haze. Diesel. White Rhino. Despite the odd names, money changes hands at a consistent rate.

I turn into the nearest casino: the Crystal Palace. The structure is in the shape of a diamond and made entirely of glass. The lobby is white and gold marble. Bronze statues of ancient gods on pedestals adorn corners with tall sprouting plants. Fountains spray water high into the air.

I stand out amid such opulence. My hair is dirty, my skin and clothes covered in dust, and I am certain my exhaustion weighs heavy on my face. I crave a shower and a soft bed, so I use the last of my cash to pay for a room and hope the insanity of my plan is fueled by my lack of sleep. That when I wake, I will have a better plan.

Except this does not prove true. I wake knowing my latest idea is my only option next to running back to Noah, and I refuse to give in so easily. I dig clean clothes out of my bag: dark jeans, white tee, and black leather jacket. Under one pant leg, I strap on the only weapon I own—a knife, in case things go horribly wrong—then slick my hair into a low-hanging ponytail.

In the hotel’s casino, amid the ringing of slots and clicking of chips, I patrol the tables until I find an unguarded cell phone beside a patron. His chips are stacked high to one side and his laugh soars above everyone else’s. I lean on the table as if I have an interest in the game, smile at the man, who has crooked yellow teeth, and slide his cell off the edge.

“Good luck,” I tell him as I walk away, hoping he does not notice the flush in my cheeks. One thing I never do is steal from others, but I have little choice. I cannot have my call traced to this location. With