Incubation (The Incubation Trilogy Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

her plea to talk. We’re under curfew—there’s no way we can get together.
    “Do you . . . do you think anyone was badly hurt?”
    It takes a moment for the words to register, but then I look at the fourteen-year-old whose room is two doors down from mine. Her fingers twist a hank of mousy hair. She’s looking at me hopefully, as if I’ll deny what we both suspect.
    “There’s no way to know if—” I start to say, but then switch to the truth. “Probably.”
    The word hangs there for a moment, but then Shaliqua, who lives at the end of the hall, spits out, “Damn those outlaws! Damn them. I hope the IPF shot them, every one of them.” Her fists are clenched at her sides and her thin frame is trembling with fury, or reaction to the day’s events. The two boys standing behind me murmur agreement.
    Remembering the outlaw I saw die, I say nothing, merely stepping off the elevator when it opens, and walking directly to my room. It’s tiny and utilitarian, with a single bed and nightstand, hooks and shelves for clothes and my few personal items, including my Little House on the Prairie, and a toilet and sink in an alcove. Hygiene facilities with showers are communal, down the hall. As one of the oldest repos, I’ve got a corner room with floor to ceiling windows on two sides. During the day, I can glimpse the sea. It’s dark now, though, and all I can see is the dim glow from the dome and the harsh glare of the perimeter lights. There’s a lot of activity at the IPF compound, a stone’s throw away, and it seems there are more soldiers than usual on patrol.
    Hungry, I eat a vegeprote bar, then sponge bathe rather than go down to the hyfac. I try to read a paper on epigenetics that Dr. Ronan assigned me, but I can’t focus. Halla’s face keeps intruding. I can’t violate curfew , I tell her image. I can’t. Day after tomorrow’s April twelfth. Reunion Day. I can’t risk it. Surely whatever you want to talk about will keep until morning. I keep seeing her mouth form the word “Please.” Damn it. I fling my reader onto the bed and knuckle my eyes until lights flash behind them. In my mind, the ghostly shapes of my parents struggle with the solid form of my best friend.
    I pick up my Little House on the Prairie and hold it loosely. It’s the only thing I have from before the Kube, my only link with my parents. It’s an actual book with a picture of a little girl in braids on the cover, her parents and a log cabin in the background. I’ve read it so many times I can recite large chunks, and I don’t read it now. Just holding it comforts me and brings me closer to the parents who sent it with me for some reason. I’ve searched it for messages, but there’s not so much as a name on the flyleaf or an underlined passage. I wonder sometimes if it means my parents were pioneers at an outpost. Mostly, though, I think they were trying to tell me that they love me like Ma and Pa Ingalls loved Laura. I stroke the cover and put it back.
    I can’t not go. I can feel that Halla really needs me. Mind made up, I remove my boots, sling my bag across my chest, and cross to the door. I ease it open. The hall is dark, but not black, with dim biolume fixtures set on the wall every fifty feet. Scanning left and right, I see no one. The stairs are six doors down. I glide toward them.
    I try the stairway door. Locked. I’m not surprised. This isn’t exactly the first time I’ve gone sneaking around after hours. I pull the mini EMP gadget Wyck built me from my bag and hold it against the maglock armature. He talked about solenoids and soft iron cores when he gave it to me, but the only part I care about is that the electromagnetic pulse disrupts the lock’s power supply for a half-second. Bzzt. I pull the door open, mildly triumphant. The stairwell is can’t-see-my-hand–in-front-of-my-face dark. Putting one hand on the wall, I step down. I grope for the door when I reach the next landing.
    All is silent and still on