Marissa Meyer: The Queen's Army

He embraced his father too, just as brief and just as fierce so he would know how much love was put into it.

Then he squared his shoulders and stepped toward the thaumaturges.

The woman’s grin returned. “Welcome to the queen’s army.”

They said the anesthesia would give him such a deep, empty sleep that there would be no dreams, but they were wrong. He dreamt of needles burrowing into his skin. He dreamt of pliers gripping his teeth. He dreamt of hot ashes and smoke in his eyes. He dreamt of a white tundra, a cold he had never known, and a hunger barely satiated by dripping meat in his jaws.

Mostly, he dreamt of howls in the distance. Forlorn cries that went on and on and on.

The waking came slowly, like being pulled up from a pit of mud. The howls began to dim as he pried open his eyes. He was in the same room that he’d been in when the nameless nurse had stuck the needle into his arm, but he knew instantly that he was changed. The walls around him were a brighter, crisper white than he’d ever known. The sound of every machine and contraption reverberated in his skull. The scent of chemicals and ammonia invaded his nostrils, making him want to gag, but he was too weak.

His limbs were heavy on the exam table, his joints aching. He wore an oversized shirt that made him feel vulnerable and cold. There was a lump beneath his neck. Forcing his fumbling arm to move, he reached behind his head to find bandages there.

As his awareness sharpened, he struggled to recall what little information the nurse had given him.

All soldiers were modified to increase their effectiveness as members of the queen’s army. He would wake up improved .

He took in another breath and this time picked up on a new scent. No, two scents.

Two individual odors made up of pheromones and sweat and soap and chemicals. Coming closer.

The door opened and a man and woman entered. The woman wore a white lab jacket and had spiky auburn hair.

The man was a thaumaturge, but not one who had taken Z from his home. He had dark, wavy hair that he’d tucked back behind both ears and eyes that were as black as the sky. They matched his tailored, third-level thaumaturge coat.

And Z could pick out every unique odor on them—lotions and cosmetics and hormones.

“Good,” said the woman, pressing her finger against a pad on the wall. The exam table began to hum and Z was raised to a seated position. He grasped at the thin blanket around his chest. “Your monitor informed me that you were awake. I am Dr. Murphy. I presided over your surgeries. How are you feeling?”

Z squinted at her. “I’m not…am I—”

He hesitated as his tongue found something foreign in his mouth. He clasped his hand over his lips, then reached inside. The pad of his thumb found the sharp point of a fang and he jerked it away.

“Careful,” said the woman. “Your new implants will serve as some of your most effective weapons. May I?”

He didn’t resist as she pulled his jaw open and examined his teeth. “Your gums are healing nicely. We replaced all of your teeth, otherwise there wouldn’t be room for the canines. We’ve also reinforced your jaw for additional leverage and pressure. You’ll likely be sore for another ten to fourteen days, especially as we wean you off the pain killers. How are your eyes?” She pulled a contraption out of her pocket and flickered a light across his pupils. “You’ll likely notice increased pigmentation—it’s nothing to concern yourself with. Once your optic nerves adapt, you’ll find that your eyesight has become optimized to detect and pinpoint motion. Do let your thaumaturge know if you experience any dizziness, blurred vision, or dark spots. I trust you’re already experiencing heightened senses of hearing and smell?”

It took him a moment to realize it was a question, and he gave a shaky nod.

“Excellent. The rest of your modifications will evolve over the next eight to twelve months. As your body adapts to the genetic alterations, you’ll notice new muscle strength, agility, flexibility, and stamina. All this will come with increased metabolism, so you’ll find yourself eating more in the coming months. Even more than a normal twelve-year-old boy, that is.” Her eyes twinkled.

Z’s pulse began to pound against his temples.

“But we’ve prepared for all that,” she continued when he didn’t laugh. “Soldiers are provided a high-protein diet that we’ve created for your specific needs. Do you have any questions before I hand you off to Thaumaturge Jael?”

His breathing was becoming more and more difficult to soothe. “What’s going to happen to me? In the next…eight to twelve months?”

She flashed a braggart’s smile. “You’ll become a soldier, of course.” She held up the small device again. With a tap, a holograph emerged, showing two rotating images.

One, a young male, perhaps in his late teens.

The other, a white wolf.

“Based on years of research and trials, we have perfected our methods of genetic engineering, allowing us to combine select genes of Her Majesty’s prized Canis lupus arctos with those of still-developing Lunar males.” She tapped another button and the two holographs merged. Z sucked in a breath. This new creature had rounded shoulders, and enormous hands that were covered with a fine layer of fur, and fangs that jutted from a grotesquely twisted mouth. More fur covered his face, surrounding severe yellow eyes.

Z pushed himself back into the exam table.

“Using this method,” continued the doctor, “we have created the ultimate soldier. Strong and fearless, with the instincts of one of nature’s greatest predators. Most important, he is a soldier who is entirely subject to the will of his thaumaturge.” She shut off the holograph. “But Thaumaturge Jael will be able to explain all that to you in due time.”

“Th-that’s going to happen to me?”

The doctor opened her mouth to speak, but the thaumaturge cleared his throat and took a step toward the bed. “Perhaps, or perhaps not. You have undergone the modifications to give you the skills all soldiers require. But we chose to withhold the more animalistic changes. For now.”

“Though we can complete the necessary mutations at any time,” added the doctor.

“But—why not…”

“You have been selected as one of only five hundred conscripts to receive special training. Your aptitude tests suggest you could be valuable to us as more than a member of the infantry, and Her Majesty is preparing a unit of soldiers to play a very specific role.” He listed his head. “Whether or not you are admitted into that program will ultimately depend on the promise you display during your training.”

The threatening look the thaumaturge pinned on him wasn’t necessary. Z never wanted to be back on this exam table. He never wanted another needle beneath his skin. He never wanted to wake up with fur on his face and eyes that had no humanity behind them.

The queen was making a different kind of soldier, and he had already decided that he would be one of them.

He was kept in the facility for another twenty-four hours, so that the doctor could monitor how his body was reacting to the surgeries. He discovered that what had seemed like a few hours of nightmares had, in reality, been twenty-six days of being kept comatose in a suspended animation tank while his body underwent the surgeries and adapted to the mutations. Twenty-six days, gone, while his DNA melded with that of a white wolf, while nameless doctors and scientists turned him into a beast to serve his queen. In that time, the sun had come and gone, plunging the great city of Artemisia into another long night.

The next day, he found a pile of clothes left beside his bed—soft brown pants, a black T-shirt, and plain boots. They fit him perfectly.