CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 4
THE SIXTEEN CHILDREN
I couldn't stop staring at the screen.
SECOND CANDIDATE: LUKA MORETTI.
The words seemed to burn themselves into my mind.
My daughter was crying.
Luka was standing beside the computer.
And for the first time since I'd met him, he looked frightened.
Not angry.
Not dangerous.
Frightened.
I pulled my daughter into my arms.
"What does that mean?"
Luka didn't answer.
"Luka."
His eyes remained fixed on the screen.
"Turn it off."
"No."
"Elena."
"You've been lying to me since the moment you walked into that hospital."
"I never said I wasn't."
My heart tightened.
"So you admit it?"
"I admit there are things I haven't told you."
"Are you my daughter's father?"
His silence was unbearable.
"Answer me."
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"The file says I'm a candidate."
"That's not what I asked."
He finally looked at me.
"I don't know if I'm her biological father."
I stared at him.
"But you knew there was a possibility."
"Yes."
"Before you signed the birth certificate?"
"Yes."
"Before you even met her?"
"Yes."
I shook my head.
"You had no right."
"I know."
"You had no right to put your name on my daughter's birth certificate."
"I know."
"Then why did you?"
His expression hardened.
"Because if I hadn't, someone else would have."
"Who?"
"The people upstairs."
I glanced toward the ceiling.
The sound of distant footsteps traveled through the concrete.
They were still in the house.
Searching.
Luka moved toward the steel door.
"How long until they find this room?"
"Not long."
"Then we need to leave."
"Where?"
He looked at the computer.
"There's another exit."
I didn't move.
"You're not answering my questions."
"I will."
"When?"
"When you're alive long enough to hear the answers."
He opened a concealed panel in the wall.
Behind it was another narrow passage.
I hated that I had to trust him.
I hated that my daughter depended on me.
And most of all, I hated that part of me still believed Luka would keep us safe.
I followed.
The passage sloped downward.
The air became colder.
After several minutes, we reached a steel staircase.
At the bottom was a large underground chamber.
Luka turned on the lights.
I stopped.
The walls were covered with photographs.
Dozens of them.
No.
Hundreds.
But sixteen photographs were arranged separately on the far wall.
Each one had a number.
M-01
M-02
M-03
I slowly walked toward them.
My daughter stirred in my arms.
Luka remained behind me.
"What is this place?"
"The archive."
"For M-17?"
"For every child."
I looked at the photographs.
The first child was a little boy.
Maybe two years old.
Brown hair.
Round cheeks.
A small scar above his eyebrow.
Underneath his picture were several lines of information.
M-01
MALE
AGE: 2
STATUS: DECEASED
I swallowed.
"How?"
Luka didn't answer.
I moved to the next.
M-02
A little girl.
AGE: 4
STATUS: MISSING
Next.
M-03
A boy.
AGE: 7
STATUS: TRANSFERRED
I turned to Luka.
"What does transferred mean?"
"It means they moved the child to another facility."
"Why?"
"Testing."
My stomach turned.
"What kind of testing?"
"Blood extraction. Genetic sequencing. Drug tolerance. Cellular regeneration."
I stared at him.
"You said these were children."
"They were."
"They're still children."
"I know."
"Then how could anyone do this?"
Luka's expression became distant.
"Because the people who created M-17 stopped seeing them as children."
He looked at the wall.
"They saw them as numbers."
I continued.
M-04.
A baby.
Only nine months old.
STATUS: DECEASED.
M-05.
A girl with a shaved head.
STATUS: DECEASED.
M-06.
A boy with dark eyes.
STATUS: MISSING.
M-07.
A girl.
STATUS: TRANSFERRED.
My hands started shaking.
I reached M-08.
There was no photograph.
Only an empty frame.
"What happened to M-08?"
"Nobody knows."
"M-09?"
"Same."
M-10.
DECEASED.
M-11.
DECEASED.
M-12.
DECEASED.
M-13.
MISSING.
M-14.
DECEASED.
M-15.
TRANSFERRED.
M-16.
LOCATION UNKNOWN.
I stood there in silence.
Sixteen children.
Four confirmed dead.
Several missing.
Others transferred to places no one could find.
Then I looked at the last empty space.
M-17.
There was no photograph.
Only a name.
PENDING.
I whispered:
"Why is there no picture?"
Luka didn't answer.
I turned.
"Why?"
He looked at me.
"Because your daughter is the first M-17 they haven't been able to control."
I felt cold.
"Control?"
"Every previous child was identified after birth."
"And mine?"
"They identified her before birth."
"How?"
"Your medical records."
I thought about Dr. Harris.
The altered files.
The missing blood tests.
The strange nurse.
The people in the hospital.
"They knew before she was born."
"Yes."
"How?"
"Because someone inside the hospital was reporting to them."
I closed my eyes.
My daughter's first breath had been watched.
Her first cry had been recorded.
Her blood had been measured.
Her existence had been entered into some secret database before I had even held her.
A wave of anger replaced the fear.
"Who gave them access?"
"We're trying to find out."
"No."
Luka looked at me.
"I want names."
"You don't have them yet."
"Then find them."
He stared at me for a moment.
Something changed in his eyes.
Respect, perhaps.
Or surprise.
"You're not the woman I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who would break."
I looked at my daughter.
"I already broke."
Then I looked back at him.
"They just haven't realized I'm putting myself back together."
For the first time, Luka almost smiled.
Almost.
Then he walked toward another section of the archive.
"There is something else you need to see."
I followed.
The sixteen children's files weren't the only things stored underground.
There were folders.
Boxes.
Old laboratory equipment.
And dozens of handwritten notes.
Luka pulled out one file.
"Your father wrote this."
I opened it.
The first page contained a diagram.
A genetic sequence.
At the top:
M-17 PROTOCOL
Below it were sixteen columns.
Each represented a child.
And beneath each name were percentages.
I stared.
"What are these?"
"Genetic stability."
"Meaning?"
"The higher the number, the closer the child was to surviving the treatment."
I looked at M-01.
12%.
M-02.
18%.
M-03.
21%.
The percentages increased slowly.
M-07.
43%.
M-10.
57%.
M-12.
61%.
M-14.
72%.
M-15.
81%.
M-16.
89%.
I reached M-17.
The percentage field was blank.
I looked at Luka.
"Why isn't there a number?"
"Because they never tested her."
"But you said—"
"They tested her mother."
I froze.
"My mother?"
Luka nodded.
"Maria."
I looked back at the file.
"What's her number?"
Luka's face changed.
"She wasn't assigned a number."
"Why?"
"Because she wasn't a subject."
I frowned.
"Then what was she?"
He hesitated.
"The original source."
I didn't understand.
"Source of what?"
"The mutation."
My eyes moved to the diagram.
"You're saying my mother had the gene?"
"Yes."
"And I inherited it?"
"Yes."
"And my daughter inherited it too?"
"That's what they believe."
I looked at him.
"But you said she is the strongest version."
"Because something changed."
"What?"
"We don't know."
I felt a terrible suspicion growing inside me.
"Then how do you know she's different?"
Luka didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
"You've already tested her."
"No."
"Then who did?"
He looked away.
"Daniel."
My heart sank.
"He took her blood?"
"Not directly."
"What does that mean?"
"During one of your prenatal visits, a sample was collected."
"I remember."
"That sample was sent to an outside laboratory."
"Daniel arranged it?"
"Yes."
I felt sick.
"How long have you known?"
"Two weeks."
"And you didn't tell me."
"I was trying to confirm it."
"What?"
"The result."
I stared at him.
"What result?"
He pulled out a sealed report.
I didn't want to open it.
But I did.
The first page was Lily's name.
The second contained a series of genetic markers.
The third page had a conclusion.
SUBJECT EXHIBITS FULL M-17 COMPATIBILITY.
I couldn't breathe.
Below it:
ESTIMATED CELLULAR STABILITY: 99.7%
I looked at Luka.
"That's impossible."
"It's what the test says."
"Why would my baby have a higher percentage than all sixteen children?"
"Because she inherited the complete sequence."
"From me?"
"Partly."
"And the other part?"
He didn't answer.
I looked at the report again.
There was another line.
PATERNAL CONTRIBUTION: UNVERIFIED.
My heart began pounding.
"Luka."
He said nothing.
"Why does it say paternal contribution unverified?"
"Because Daniel wasn't tested."
"Then test him."
"We did."
"And?"
"He's not the father."
The room seemed to tilt.
"What?"
"His DNA doesn't match."
I stared at him.
"You knew."
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Since yesterday."
I felt tears forming.
"Yesterday?"
"I didn't know how to tell you."
I laughed bitterly.
"You could have started with the truth."
"I was afraid."
I looked at him.
"You?"
"Yes."
"Of what?"
"Of what you'd do when you found out."
I wiped my eyes.
"What exactly am I supposed to do?"
"Ask yourself why Daniel was so certain the baby was his."
I stopped.
"What are you implying?"
"I'm saying someone wanted you to believe he was."
"Why?"
"Because if you knew the truth about your daughter's father, you might have started asking questions."
I stared at him.
"Who is her father?"
"I don't know."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"But the computer listed you as a candidate."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
I looked at the photographs again.
Sixteen children.
Sixteen failed attempts.
One missing piece.
My daughter.
"Maybe you do know."
Luka didn't answer.
I walked away.
I needed air.
There was no air in the underground room.
Only concrete.
Secrets.
And the smell of old paper.
Then I saw something.
A photograph lying half-hidden beneath a file.
I picked it up.
My father.
My mother.
And Luka.
But there was something else.
A baby.
I stared at the photograph.
The baby was wrapped in a white blanket.
On the blanket was a small hospital bracelet.
I turned the photograph over.
There was handwriting.
MARCH 14.
THE NIGHT ELENA WAS BORN.
My heart stopped.
I looked at Luka.
"Why is there a photograph of me with you?"
He came closer.
His face had gone pale.
"I didn't know this existed."
"You were there."
"I wasn't."
"You're in the picture."
"I know."
"Then how?"
He took the photograph from me.
His fingers trembled.
"I don't remember this night."
"What do you mean?"
"I was told I was in another country."
"When?"
"The night you were born."
I stared at him.
"Who told you?"
"My father."
"Marcus?"
"Yes."
I looked at the photograph again.
There was something wrong.
The image was too old.
The baby couldn't have been Lily.
It was me.
Twenty-five years ago.
And Luka was standing beside my mother.
My father was behind them.
Three adults.
One newborn.
And a secret nobody had told me.
I turned the photograph over again.
There was one more sentence beneath the date.
I hadn't noticed it before.
The handwriting was my father's.
LUKA MUST NEVER KNOW THE CHILD SURVIVED.
I looked at Luka.
My voice barely came out.
"Survived?"
He stared at the words.
Then at me.
"Elena..."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I swear."
"Then why did my father write that?"
"I don't know."
"You were there."
"I don't remember."
"You were holding me."
"I don't remember."
"You knew my mother."
"Yes."
"You knew my father."
"Yes."
"You were there the night I was born."
"I don't remember."
I stepped closer.
"Then what happened to my mother?"
Luka's eyes filled with something I had never seen in them before.
Pain.
Real pain.
"She died."
"How?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I was unconscious."
"When?"
"That night."
"Why?"
He looked down.
"I was shot."
Silence.
I stared at him.
"Who shot you?"
He didn't answer.
"Who?"
"My father."
My heart stopped.
"Marcus shot you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I tried to take you."
I couldn't breathe.
"Take me where?"
"Away from them."
"Where?"
"Somewhere they couldn't find you."
"And my father stopped you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Luka looked at the photograph.
"Because Robert believed I was the only person who could lead them to you."
I felt a chill.
"Then why did he keep me?"
"Because he changed his mind."
"When?"
"The night your mother died."
I looked at him.
"What happened that night?"
He stared at me.
"I remember one thing."
"What?"
"Your mother gave you to me."
My heart pounded.
"She gave me to you?"
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
Luka closed his eyes.
For a long time, he didn't speak.
Then:
"She said, 'If they find her, they will make her what they made me.'"
I felt tears slide down my face.
"What did you do?"
"I promised to protect you."
"Then why didn't you?"
"Because I woke up in a hospital three days later."
"And I was gone."
He nodded.
"Robert had taken you."
I looked at the photograph.
For twenty-five years, I had believed my father saved me.
Maybe he had.
But he had also hidden the truth.
The truth about my mother.
The truth about Luka.
And perhaps the truth about who I really was.
Suddenly, a loud metallic sound echoed through the tunnel.
Luka turned instantly.
Someone was coming.
He put the photograph into his jacket.
"Stay behind me."
"Who is it?"
"I don't know."
The lights flickered.
Then the emergency alarm began screaming.
Red lights flashed across the archive.
Luka grabbed my hand.
"We're leaving."
"But the files—"
"Forget the files."
"No."
I pulled away.
"They're the only proof."
"We have to survive first."
Another metallic crash.
Closer.
Then a voice came through the underground speakers.
Calm.
Male.
Familiar.
"Luka."
He froze.
I looked at him.
"Who is that?"
The voice continued.
"You've always been stubborn."
Luka's face became completely expressionless.
The voice laughed softly.
"Bring Elena to me."
I whispered:
"Who is it?"
Luka looked at me.
"My father."
The speakers crackled.
Marcus Moretti spoke again.
"And tell her I have something that belongs to her."
I felt cold.
"What?"
A pause.
Then his answer:
"Her mother's original medical file."
Luka's hand tightened around mine.
The voice continued.
"And if she wants to know why she was supposed to die twenty-five years ago..."
The lights went out.
"...she'll have to come and ask me herself."
Silence.
Then the emergency doors began opening one by one.
Luka pulled me toward the exit.
But before we reached it, I looked back at the wall.
Sixteen children.
Sixteen names.
Sixteen lives that had disappeared.
And now I understood something.
They weren't simply the failures of M-17.
They were evidence.
Evidence of what had been done before my daughter was born.
Evidence of what could happen to her if we failed.
I held my daughter tighter.
And for the first time, I made myself a promise.
Whatever M-17 was—
whatever my father had hidden—
whatever Luka Moretti had done—
I would find the truth.
Not for me.
For the sixteen children whose photographs still hung in that underground room.
And most of all—
for the little girl sleeping peacefully in my arms.
Because if they had spent twenty-five years waiting for her...
they were going to have to wait a lot longer.
I wasn't giving her to them.
May you like
Not tonight.
Not ever.
