That morning, Adam and Vicky repeated what they’d done the day before: they arrived at the Orbit II tower, went up to the twentieth floor, and checked in at the lavish reception area.

  The same gray-suited man from the previous day greeted them and asked whom they were looking for.

  “I’m White O22. Your boss told me to come in for some tests,” Adam said curtly.

  He was starting to hate the place—the polished wood decor, the cloying scent of air freshener, everything. But most of all, he hated the Satellites and their cursed institution.

  “Right this way,” the agent replied.

  When Vicky moved to follow Adam, two more gray-suited men stepped in her path.

  “Sorry. Only Mr. White O22 is authorized to proceed. You can wait here.”

  Vicky’s eyes blazed with fury. “Tell your boss that—”

  “It’s fine, Vicky,” Adam interrupted, exasperated but calm. “Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be. If I’m not back in half an hour, burn this damn place down.”

  Vicky stood there, arms akimbo, watching as the agents escorted Adam to the elevators.

  After ascending several floors, the agents led Adam to a smaller, more discreet reception area nestled among the building’s labyrinthine passages—the official reception for the Satellite Agency. They reminded him of the confidentiality agreement regarding everything he saw or heard there, then left him in a long hallway with an enormous skylight overhead.

  “At least I’m not in that awful waiting room,” he thought, taking a seat in a comfortable chair. This time, he tried not to grow impatient, resigning himself to the likelihood of waiting close to an hour before anyone bothered to show up.

  The wait, however, was brief.

  Ten minutes later, a gray-suited man arrived.

  “This way, please.”

  They all look the same. These damn guys all look exactly the same, Adam thought.

  The agent led him to a door at the end of the hallway: the infirmary. It was a small room equipped with medical supplies, a mini fridge, and an exam table. The faint smell of disinfectant, though mild, still managed to be unbearable.

  “The doctor will be with you shortly,” the agent said, closing the door behind him.

  Adam sat on the exam table, already anticipating the doctor’s routine instructions—‘Sit here, roll up your sleeves, take a deep breath while we draw blood’—and all the rest. He rolled up his shirt sleeves above his elbows, beating the doctor to it.

  It was unsettling how quickly he was getting used to this sort of thing. Visiting a medical room was starting to feel as routine as hitting the club and ordering a drink had been just a few weeks ago.

  “Good morning, Mr. White!” the doctor greeted as he entered, his overly cheerful tone catching Adam off guard.

  He was a short, stocky old man who looked like he was well into retirement age. He moved slowly, and although his face was all smiles, Adam suspected that every step was an effort for him. The thin hair left on the sides of his head was white. He wore a pair of oversized, thick glasses and a white lab coat that accentuated his solid belly and large butt. He looked like a barrel wrapped in a lab coat.

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  “And here I thought wearing anything but gray was forbidden,” Adam remarked.

  “Well, young man, that’s because I’m one of a kind,” the old man replied with a cheerful grin, showing off a long row of teeth that were far too perfect to be real for someone his age. “You see, I’m the boss around here! Nobody knows it, but I’m the one who calls the shots, which is why I wear whatever I please. One of these days, I’ll show up in a floral shirt and slippers, and you’ll see grumpy old Quiroga forced to greet me like nothing’s wrong.”

  Adam stared at him. The old man had to be joking—or was he? He seemed far too upbeat for such a serious environment. Besides, who the hell was this Quiroga guy? Was it the man who had led him there or the one at reception?

  The doctor must have noticed the confusion on Adam’s face because he waved it off with a gesture like a grandfather telling his grandson to forget what he just said—it was all in jest.

  “Name’s Lawrence Masami, but everyone here knows me as Larry,” he said, extending his hand for a shake. “Oh, and by the way, the Larry part’s serious. If you ask for Dr. Masami, no one will know who you mean. But say, ‘I’m looking for Larry,’ and everyone will point you in the right direction.”

  What in the world? Adam felt like he had somehow slipped into another dimension, one where the people in Orbit Tower II weren’t those gray-clad, refrigerator-like personalities but the complete opposite.

  Larry pulled a pair of latex gloves from a cabinet and slipped them on. He tied a tourniquet around Adam’s left arm, dabbed the area with alcohol and gauze, and inserted the needle.

  “Looks like you were ready for this,” the old man commented.

  Adam nodded as his blood filled the syringe.

  “I draw blood five days a week,” the old man continued. “There are agents whose samples I collect regularly—comes with the nature of their work. You know the kind of work I mean.”

  No, I don’t know what kind of work you mean, Adam wanted to say, but he kept quiet.

  “The thing is, every time those agents come here, I have to explain the procedure as if it’s their first time. Can you believe that?” Larry said, mimicking himself in a falsetto, “‘Take off the jacket, undo the tie, roll up the sleeve.’ Oh, you have no idea how tedious this job gets. The only ones who behave properly are grumpy old Quiroga—and, of course, the Division Chief. They’re the only ones who know what to do as soon as they walk into this room.”

  Adam forced a smile.

  Doctor Masami nodded toward Adam’s chest. “And that scar?” he asked.

  Adam glanced down through the open lapels of his shirt to look at his chest. How strange—he had almost forgotten it was there. A little above his left nipple, closer to the center of his chest, over his heart. It was tiny, almost hidden by the brown hair on his chest. Not a deep mark, more like a small circle of wrinkled skin—a…

  “Burn scar,” Larry said, matter-of-factly. “You know, three or four years ago—can’t remember exactly, old age and all—I visited the Markabian Empire to witness the launch of their new military program. ‘The Grenadiers are the pinnacle of weapons technology, blah, blah, blah…’ You know how those folks love to brag. Anyway, every Grenadier had a burn just like that on their chest—and on other parts of their body, too. Not to mention the wrist scars from the implants, of course. But I distinctly remember the chest burns.”

  Adam’s mind wandered, trying to piece together its origin. According to Kara Lieven, both Juzo and he had the same scar when the paramedics…

  “Primary Plasma,” Adam murmured. The words surfaced in his mind as they had so many times before.

  “Well, young man, we’re all done here.” The doctor pulled out the needle, sealed the blood sample, slipped it into the pocket of his lab coat, and patted it as if to say, ‘It’s safe right here.’ His belly and backside were so prominent that the gesture made Adam think of a winemaker patting a barrel to check the wine inside.

  “They’ll take you to the practice room soon,” Larry said, his eyes, magnified behind thick lenses, meeting Adam’s. “I know Dr. Gabor wants to study the extent of your powers. Gabor’s a funny guy, you’ll see. But I’d advise you to stick to exactly what he asks, got it? Gabor’s new here, but he’s already shown he’s got quite the temper.”

  Dr. Gabor? Quiroga? Why did this man talk like Adam was supposed to know who they were?

  The same agent from earlier appeared at the door. ‘Larry’ Masami made a gesture indicating everything was ready, his smile revealing those alarmingly white, perfect teeth along with the wrinkles on his pale face.

  How does he manage to smile so brightly with those huge glasses on? Adam wondered.

  “Well, Mr. White, they’re here for you,” the old man said, bidding him farewell with a firm handshake.

  Adam returned the gesture with an awkward smile, buttoned his sleeve, stepped down from the exam table, and followed the man in gray.