Listen (Muted Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  “Are you prepared to cooperate today?” The voice from his clipboard and speaker seemed louder than it had during their last conversation.

  Jemma crossed her arms, and the man visibly sighed.

  “I thought that might be the case. Come with me.”

  Jemma stood where she was as he left. Before he was even out of sight, the guard came in, prodding her forward and out of the room. Jemma’s shoulders and back were tense as she finally complied, following behind Doctor Clipboard and trying to mentally map the corridor.

  The walls were made of the same concrete blocks as the walls in her cell. The hall seemed to be one long corridor rather than something that actually branched for her to map, but it did turn, to the left, then the right, continuing mostly along in one direction. The doors were made of wood, for the most part. Many had viewing windows in them. A few doors were more solid, like the one on her cell. From the outside, it looked like those might have been upgraded from whatever they’d been originally, the paint not quite matching what was on the others.

  In one section of the hallway, each of the rooms seemed to have a large window next to the door. It was at one of these that a door opened on their right, held open by another man in a lab coat, who waved for them to enter. He was younger than the man who had been asking her questions so far, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, with light blond hair, and he held a small keypad rather than an entire clipboard. Jemma stepped into the room after Doctor Clipboard, slowing as she took in the scene in front of her.

  In the middle of the room was a chair much like the ones she expected to see at the dentist’s, cushioned and made to recline, but definitely medical. Next to it were machines, some she’d seen in hospitals and knew monitored vitals, and others that looked like they dealt with fluids of some kind.

  She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to be here. She focused on her heart rate, tried to keep it even and steady. If those machines were meant for her, as she suspected, she didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing how rattled she was.

  “Sit, please.”

  She opened her eyes at the monotone request from the man who was now standing behind her. The door shut firmly, leaving the guard in the hall. This new scientist-type seemed to be an assistant of sorts, and he held a granola bar out to her, a smile on his face.

  She’d had nothing but the single, small meal since they’d taken her, so she accepted the offering, and his smile grew. Jemma briefly considered throwing the bar at his face.

  Instead, she moved to sit in the chair, unwrapping the food and eating it, ignoring the churning of her stomach as the sweet sustenance clashed with the tension she tried to hide.

  Jemma watched as the two moved around the room, arranging machines and a tray of instruments, typing occasionally without letting her hear what they typed. The older man frowned at his associate more than once. Finally, they turned their attention to Jemma, the younger man hooking her up to a blood pressure cuff and heart rate monitor.

  “We are going to ask you questions with ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers,” typed the older man while this happened. “Do you understand?”

  Jemma crossed her arms, the instrument reading her pulse pulling against her finger. The man scowled, then nodded to the one next to her before he continued typing. “We have ways to work around your unnecessary defiance.”

  “This won’t hurt,” he took the time to type before reaching to lift the hair from her neck.

  She pulled away, shaking her head. Doctor Clipboard walked to the door and opened it, admitting the guard, who placed a hand on her weapon while looking pointedly at Jemma.

  Jemma sat back where she’d been, in reach of the assistant, and the guard nodded and left, shutting the door again. Jemma heard the monitor’s gentle beep speed as her frustration and anger and helplessness translated to a physical reaction. The assistant patted her arm absently before silencing the machine and moving her hair out of the way again.

  She forced herself to remain still as he pressed sticky circles against the skin at the base of her skull, then hooked those to wires attached to a machine next to the one showing her vitals.

  “Let’s try this again,” typed the man in front of her. “Is your name Jemma Tyler?”

  She stared. The man next to her looked at the lines on a monitor and nodded.

  “Are you twenty-three years old?”

  He nodded again. What was this, a lie detector?

  “Are you able to communicate telepathically with people you do not know?”

  A nod.

  Jemma closed her eyes, picking a song at random and focusing on the lyrics, pretending she was singing them loudly, focusing on the words as if she were trying to Talk.

  “Were you able to communicate telepathically before the Event?”

  Lyrics. That was all she could hear, all she was thinking of.

  “Were you able to communicate telepathically before the Event?”

  The sound of the door jarred her focus briefly. Would they really shoot her for not thinking what they wanted her to? She had too many questions, so many things unanswered. It wasn’t as if she were really trying to hide anything, but it gave her some sense of control, and Jemma really didn’t want to relinquish her last thread of control without a fight.

  After she opened her eyes, she blinked. Instead of the guard joining them, the man who had been standing in front of her had left. It was just her and the man beside her, the younger one, who was watching her patiently, his keyboard in one hand.

  “This doesn’t have to be a struggle.” He unhooked the sensors from the back of her neck, wincing sympathetically as he pulled some hair off with them. “You can help, you know. None of us will get what we want if we don’t cooperate.”

  Jemma watched him. He seemed kind, really, and the whole “good cop, bad cop” strategy was pretty hard to resist. If she was going to end up giving in anyway, was it better to do it when she chose to, even if she knew she was being manipulated?

  “Let’s start over,” he typed. “I’m Josh.”

  She stared at his outstretched hand before slowly reaching out to take it, shaking it firmly. Josh rewarded her with a wide smile, a hint of pride, and Jemma had a sudden strong impression of an owner who’d just taught his dog a new trick.

  Her stomach churning again, she pulled back. Josh didn’t seem to register her displeasure, and he reached under the tray of implements and pulled out a piece of paper and a box of crayons. He placed both on her lap.

  “There, now you can communicate properly. The crayons were the only things the guards would approve. Seem to think you’re dangerous, but I think we can work well together, can’t we?” When Jemma didn’t respond, he continued. “For instance, instead of needing to bring the guards in so I can get a sample of blood from you, we can find a compromise.”

  Jemma raised an eyebrow and retrieved a red crayon from the box. A compromise like half a vial of blood instead of a full one? she wrote.

  Josh seemed genuinely amused, his face lighting up as he laughed soundlessly. “Not quite what I had in mind,” he typed, the monotone speaker unimpressed by Jemma’s attempt at snark. “But I can offer you something in exchange for your cooperation.”

  Jack.

  Josh’s amusement faded. “No, I’m sorry. They won’t authorize that.” He really was playing on the good cop thing. “Is there something else? Something I can get approved?”

  Anything she could use to escape or communicate was going to be turned down. What about a book?

  Josh looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure I can get a book approved, but what about a newspaper?”

  It would be entertainment, at least, something to keep her from completely losing her cool if they continued to put her in that empty room for hours on end. She nodded, and Josh grinned again; his dog had performed another trick and earned a treat. Jemma looked away, feeling tears in her eyes, and with the slightest prick at her skin, Josh quickl
y drew blood from her arm and set the vial aside, then removed the device he’d placed on her finger earlier.

  “There, now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Not compared to being held against my will, no, wrote Jemma.

  Josh frowned. “Have they told you why you’re here?” He continued typing without awaiting a response. “You could be a benefit to the future of us all.”

  How? Jemma was running out of room on the paper, and she turned it over when he’d read it.

  “I can’t really tell you, but trust me. It’s important.”

  I haven’t really been given a lot of reason to trust anyone here.

  Josh visibly sighed. “Have you been hurt? Starved? Treated inhumanely?”

  I’m not sure one tiny meal yesterday and a snack today really counts as not being starved.

  Josh’s frown deepened, and he typed into his keyboard without any sound emitting. Jemma scanned for a display, something he could read a response on, but instead she saw a tiny earpiece. They must use something like she’d seen before, something that translated typing into audio. He kept the keyboard tilted toward himself so she wasn’t quite able to see what he typed.

  “There was miscommunication during in-processing,” he finally let her hear. “It won’t happen again. And I’ve arranged for a newspaper to be delivered each morning with your breakfast.” He looked at her, somehow both apologetic and pleased, almost sheepish. “Now, if we can continue?”

  Jemma shrugged, and Josh nodded.

  “Okay,” he typed. “We’ll continue with the yes or no questions, and you can elaborate if needed.” He handed her another sheet of paper. “Were you able to communicate telepathically before the Event?”

  Jemma shook her head, and he retrieved a tablet and started making notations, Jemma wondering briefly why he didn’t just use that to communicate.

  “Are you aware of any who can communicate telepathically at your elevated level, aside from yourself?”

  At Jemma’s nod, Josh consulted something on his tablet.

  “That would be Jack, Kendall, and Marcia, correct?”

  She nodded.

  “Any others?”

  She shook her head, and he tapped away on the tablet for at least a solid minute.

  “Have any of your family members ever shown any aptitude in telepathy or empathy?”

  Jemma tensed, picturing her outgoing sister forced into this situation, and she shook her head emphatically.

  “Before the Event, did you ever know what was going to happen before it happened?”

  Jemma shook her head.

  “Before the Event, did you ever think you knew what somebody was going to say before they spoke?”

  And so the questions continued, Jemma replying with a negative to virtually all of them. Finally, Josh propped up the tablet so it rested on the instrument tray, a small light indicating the camera was turned on.

  “Now, we’re going to see whether you can communicate telepathically with a person you’ve just met. Me.” He grinned, looking excited. She considered telling him she already knew it wasn’t going to work, that she’d already tried it with library patrons, but she decided against it, against giving him any more help than she absolutely had to.

  Besides, she suspected she’d have to prove it, regardless.

  “We’ve already been able to determine that touch enhances communication in the vast majority of those with elevated telepathic ability, so we’re going to keep in physical contact for this experiment.” He placed his hand on her arm, halfway between her hand and the colorful bandage he’d applied after taking her blood, and Jemma stiffened, forcing herself to stay still. “Now, I’d like to start with each of us trying to send simple sentences to the other,” he typed with his free hand. “Go ahead and start when you’re ready.”

  “Sure, because I’m just going to continue doing as you instruct,” she tried sending, without any echo or reaction to indicate he heard. She continued, feeling good doing something, even if it was just silently, pointlessly yelling. “Let me just sit here like a good little lab rat, accepting your treats and jumping through your hoops because I’m afraid of what you might do if I refuse entirely, and at least this way I get something out of it.”

  “Were you able to hear what I tried to send?” Josh’s electronic voice was jarring after the anger she’d just tried to send his way. She shook her head. “Did you try to send me telepathic communication?” She nodded, and Josh looked disappointed.

  The door opened without warning, and Jemma jumped slightly.

  “What is it, Dr. Harris?” typed Josh, letting her hear, though Jemma wasn’t sure whether it was intentional or an oversight. Dr. Harris, the man Jemma had been thinking of as Doctor Clipboard, didn’t provide the same courtesy as he replied. Josh frowned and turned back to Jemma as Dr. Harris left, leaving the door open behind him. Josh unhooked her from the blood pressure cuff, then typed. “It’s time for you to return to your room. We’ll continue this tomorrow.” He gestured toward the hallway, where the armed woman waited for her.

  She followed the guard back to her room, walking inside and letting the door shut behind her, grateful she’d had enough interaction over the course of the morning that the empty cell actually held some appeal in its solitude.

  At least for a while.

  THREE

  Demands

  Communication

  Life continues.

  It’s funny how quickly things become normal. The technology required to function outside of the home, the signals and gestures that can save time, the telepathic communication known as Talking: all of it has come to feel almost natural.

  It’s barely been two months since The Event.

  The world has moved on. Politicians have found ways to campaign again without ever having to speak a word. News anchors are effectively utilizing voice technologies to make it look and sound as if they are speaking. Methods of ordering food are getting more streamlined, and checking out at the grocery store is easy again, though I know I’m not the only one who misses the simple chit-chat that was present in these interactions.

  If you want to hear about the weather, check out page four; you won’t find it in idle conversation.

  As I’ve written before, things change, and things stay the same. At home, things have felt pretty normal since we’ve been able to Talk, though occasionally my three-year-old’s mental enunciation takes me by surprise. At work, I still write, still share my thoughts with my lovely readers.

  I’d like to hear from you again. Write to our office or sign on at our website and tell me, what surprising thing feels normal to you already? What things might never feel normal?

  — Katie Brink, Staff Writer

  Jemma had enough time to read a few articles with her instant-oatmeal breakfast before she was led to the restroom, a towel and a pair of scrubs thrust at her by the guard in the hallway. After getting clean and changing into the surprisingly comfortable clothing, Jemma folded her own clothes, underthings tucked between shirt and pants, and hesitated.

  The clothing smelled and needed to be washed, but she didn’t really want to let go of the last thing of her own she’d been able to hold on to, either.

  She kept it with her, instead, leaving just the towel behind in the bathroom, and the guard, not one Jemma had seen previously, didn’t say anything as he led her back to her room.

  Her cell.

  Jemma set the clothing on the floor next to her bed. She didn’t have a way to ask whether they’d be returned to her, didn’t know whether she could believe them if they told her she would get the clothing back. She could at least buy some time, keep her things with her a little longer, by having them here in her cell instead of leaving them in the bathroom.

  She shook her head at herself. She wasn’t the sentimental sort, not really. She adored her favorite television shows, but she avoided the paraphernalia that went along with them. She didn’t keep knick-knacks or collectibles, didn’t hold on to cl
othes that no longer fit. Words, whether books or cards, were her only exceptions; those, she didn’t let go of.

  And now she was worried about a tiny pile of dirty clothing.

  While she was gone, someone had come in and taken away her breakfast things, the disposable styrofoam bowl and the little plastic spork that wouldn’t do her much good in a scuffle.

  They’d taken the newspaper, too.

  With a sigh, Jemma sat down on the bed, leaning back against the wall, her feet on the cot and her knees near her chest, ignoring the twinge that went through her back after just two nights on the unforgiving cot. She thought back through what she had been able to read.

  They’d brought her the local paper, with the right date, so either they were still in town or they were near enough to have the newspaper delivered on time. That was reassuring, at least; since she’d been unconscious when they’d brought her in, they could have taken her anywhere in the world without her knowing.

  The paper had held much of the usual, a combination of news, opinion pieces, and advertisements. Nothing had seemed out of place. The world was going on without her.

  Jemma closed her eyes, picturing her family, wondering whether they knew she was gone yet, whether Cecily had delivered the letters as requested.

  Wondering how they’d reacted.

  Hopefully, they were sensible enough not to go to the police. Her mother’s paranoia did usually win out over her dad’s traditional outlooks when the two conflicted without an apparent compromise. She knew Jilly wouldn’t say anything. Though the remote possibility that the police could help did still remain, it seemed like that would put a target on her family’s backs, and she really didn’t want them in here with her.

  And Don. He’d seemed so tired, so weak after just a dinner with her and Jack. She really didn’t want to think about how he might be handling the disappearance of the one person he relied on. At least Jack had been able to set up help for him in case the worst happened, in case they disappeared, like they had.