James Patterson - Maximum Ride Forever

“What’s your name?” he asked her, sitting up. He wasn’t really familiar with these types of situations, but that seemed like something you should ask.

She smiled. “What do you wish my name to be?”

He smiled uncertainly, unsure whether she was trying to please him or she really hadn’t been given a name, like him. “A10103” was branded on him, but he needed something more personal, at least for himself.

“I’m Horseman,” he offered. That would do for the time being — remind him he was a man with a mission, and a rather dark one at that.

She lay next to him on the pillow and gazed at him through long, curling lashes. “I love you, Horseman,” she sighed in a voice so sweet it was cloying.

“What?” Horseman laughed uncomfortably and tried to sit up on the impossibly fluffy pillows. “You seem nice and everything, but we just met.”

“How can that matter?” She threaded her hands through his. “We are the children of the future. Created for one another. I adore you. You adore me, don’t you?” She cocked her head like some exotic bird, studying him in puzzlement.

He understood then. This living doll was a gift from the Remedy, a bonus for his services. She was someone who would love him without question, which was all he’d really ever wanted.

So he’d thought.

Horseman felt an overwhelming empathy for her then, a sadness at the uselessness of her existence, and a deep, gnawing guilt. Because this girl , or whatever she was, had been created just for him. Yet he knew beyond certainty that he would never love her back.

And right now, she was compromising his mission.

“I have to go.” Horseman sprang out of the pillows and stood up, backing away from her. “I’m sorry. If I make it back from my job, I swear I’ll try to fix this.”

Her poised, painted face frowned as the metal door opened and the projection faded back into the freight elevator it had been.

“Come back, my love. I can help you find what you need. Just come back...”

Horseman stumbled along the streets, desperate to get through the winding labyrinth of tunnels, eager to start his mission. He dragged his hand against the tunnel wall and watched the colors project onto his clothing. The projections seemed less charming when you’d seen what was behind the mirage, and the canned air was starting to make him gag.

He knew too much — he understood that. Felt too much. Or more than he was meant to, at least. There was some glitch in him, like with the flock, and that was dangerous. He worried it was starting to become a liability.

The guards posted at every checkpoint resembled heavily armored tanks shaped like men, and their eyes followed him from behind their goggled masks. Horseman knew his movements looked erratic, and he tried to slow his pace, to look professional.

Not that he felt any fear.

Inside the smooth leather of his gloves, he stretched his fingers — his only weapon. Because the Remedy trusted him to get the job done. Not like these goons with their heavy artillery. He had been crafted to be superior, after all.

So what was he waiting for?

He ran past the stern-faced guards, but before they could even yell “ Ostanovis! ” Horseman snapped open his wings — giant, powerful things that he controlled as dexterously as his fingers — shot up into the fake skyscrapers, and burst through the ceiling vent.

By the time he heard the rapid powpowpow of their AK-47s, Horseman was soaring over land that lacked the rubble of destroyed civilization but was still tainted by layers of the ever-present ash and covered by a dense, acrid blanket of toxic air. His embedded GPS sensors told him he was in a remote part of Russia.

There was nothing on earth like flying. Horseman reveled in the bite of the cold air in his lungs — even if it happened to be sulfurous — and loved zipping fast enough to make his eyes water — even if the ash caused a stinging pain. You couldn’t do this in the tunnels, that was for sure.

He wondered what other things had been programmed in the later generations. He had more wing power, sure, better vision. He had been made stronger, bigger, and his tracking skills rivaled those of any bird of prey.

But was his smile his own? Was his joy? Did everyone feel this... utter elation when they were in the air? Did the flock? They did, he was sure.

One more thing he was fairly sure about: He hadn’t been programmed to ask these kinds of questions, which was why he’d do well to keep his mouth shut.

In fact, he’d better study up on what exactly was expected of the first Horseman if he was going to be successful on this mission. The information appeared behind his eyes as if on a screen — images of art and scholarly assessments feeding into his thoughts — and the Horseman couldn’t help grinning as he got to the interpretations.

He thought of the brooding doctor, his creator. Had his master understood the multiple meanings when he’d named A10103 his first Horseman? Did he know that the white horse could stand for both righteousness and evil?

It was going to be fun finding out.

You’d think discovering there were other people alive out there would leave us hopeful, revitalized, and closer than ever, right? Well, then you wouldn’t be taking into account what happens when a bunch of raging egos try to make decisions. Instead, it led to the worst knock-down, drag-out argument the flock had ever had.

“So, I guess we go to Pennsylvania first,” Iggy said. We were rummaging through the claustrophobic little cabin, taking stock of the supplies. “From what that Tunnelratt kid said, it sounds like there are more survivors there.”

“The survivors aren’t the issue,” Fang said. He was still holding the tablet, trying to get the thing turned back on. “The killers are. Why not try to find these H-men dudes first? Find out if they’re just random bots, or connected to something bigger.” He was all action, which was how I usually operated, too. “I think we should head to the coasts and—”

“We’re going to Russia,” Angel said out of the blue. She pulled her head out of a lower cupboard she had cleared out, and now sat among some rusted, battered pots and pans that wouldn’t even be of use to whack someone with.

“That’s stupid.” Gazzy dismissed his little sister as he stood on a chair to reach the upper shelf of a closet. “Ooh, tea tree oil. Gotta be flammable. Why would we go to Russia? You saw those comments. People said all of Europe might be wrecked.”

“It isn’t,” Angel said authoritatively. “And if you want to know the truth about what happened, you’ll follow me.”

“Let me guess. ‘I’m the big-shot psychic and I know everything.’ ” Gazzy mimicked Angel’s voice perfectly, and Nudge giggled, then winced in pain. “Okay, Ange, don’t hold out on us. Go on, tell us what mysterious future awaits us in Russia.” He wiggled his fingers and made his eyebrows jump.

Gazzy had always been protective of Angel, but clearly some tension had been building between them. Angel was definitely not smiling. She crossed her arms over her chest but didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought.” Gazzy snickered as he jumped off the chair with his find.

She stared at him evenly. “I know it’s hard when some of us are developing even more extraordinary powers and you’re still trying to control your hilarious toxic farts, but don’t you think you should grow up, Gas man?”

Gazzy looked at Angel in surprise. They were standing toe to toe now, blue-eyed mirrors of each other, and I was getting a little nervous — a threatened Angel is an unpredictable Angel. I looked at Iggy. He’d always been so good at neutralizing tension, but his jaw was set tight as he let it build and build.