I press the index button on the remote control, but the selection of videos is dismal: Cats & Dogs, Mars Needs Moms, Alvin and the Chipmunks, and a dozen other old clunkers. I'm not sure I can watch a movie anyway. In less than twelve hours the Army doctors are going to inject hundreds of trillions of nanoprobes into my skull and scan my head with pulses of radiation that will record the positions of the tiny gold spheres-and, oh yeah, fry my brain cells too. When you're facing something like that, it's kind of hard to keep your mind on a movie about singing chipmunks.

Shivering, I drop the remote control in my lap. I want Dad to come back now, immediately. I need to talk to him again about the procedure, about the details of the nanoprobes and the scanner and the robots. I turn my wheelchair toward the door and stare it as hard as I can. Using the full power of my mind, all the thoughts and feelings that will soon be converted into data, I try to will my father into appearing.

In my mind's eye I picture Dad opening the door and stepping into the room. I can see it so clearly-his tired face, his unkempt hair, his strong, veined hands. And a moment later, as if responding to my wish, someone opens the door. But it's not Dad. It's the boy with the huge, deformed head, the kid I saw two days ago in the Pioneer Base auditorium.

My chest tightens. The kid didn't even knock; he just waltzed right in. I open my mouth, ready to yell "Hey!" in the loudest voice I can muster, but then he turns around to face someone I can't see, someone who's apparently standing just outside the doorway. "Come on," he whispers. "He's in here." Then the tall girl with the green Mohawk follows him into my room and closes the door behind her.

I can't help but gape. She's even more beautiful than I'd remembered. She has two silver rings in her left eyebrow and three more dangling from her earlobe. Just above her left ear is her snake tattoo, a sinuous cobra showing its fangs on her bare scalp. Her eyes are a gorgeous brown, a shade darker than her chocolate-milk skin, but as I stare at them, she scowls and turns away. She takes an interest in the flat-screen TV, squinting at it suspiciously.

Meanwhile, the boy approaches my wheelchair. Seeing him up close is disconcerting. His head is so large I can't believe his neck can support it. His skull is mottled with bony, hairless knobs, and his massive jaw juts down to his chest. His mouth hangs permanently open, exposing his crooked yellow teeth.

"Sorry I didn't knock," he says. "I didn't want to make any noise. This base apparently has a curfew and we're not supposed to leave our rooms." He holds out his right hand. It's grotesquely oversized, like a flesh-colored baseball glove. "I'm Marshall Baxley. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"I'm Adam," I manage to say. I raise my good hand and Marshall folds his thick fingers around it. His left hand, in contrast, is normal size, but his legs are unusually large, especially below the knees. He's wearing black orthopedic shoes as big as ski boots.

Marshall lets go of my hand and points at the girl. "And that's Zia. Her flight to Colorado was delayed, just like mine. We got here so late we didn't have a chance to meet all the volunteers before curfew. But now we're making up for lost time."

Zia is still inspecting the TV screen. I like her name. It sounds Middle Eastern.

"Hi, Zia," I say, hoping she'll turn around so I can see her eyes again.

Unfortunately, she doesn't respond. She takes a closer look at the blank screen.

Marshall shrugs, then points at himself, splaying his giant hand across his chest. "I know what you're thinking. Who is this handsome young man? And how does he fend off all the girls who must be fighting over him?" He widens his open mouth, which I guess is his way of smiling. "Well, I'll tell you my secret. I was born with Proteus syndrome. That's the disease made famous by Joseph Merrick, the nineteenth-century Englishman who was exhibited as a freak. You've seen the movie about him, I assume? The Elephant Man?"

"Uh, no, I haven't."

"Ah, that's a shame. But I can give you a quick summary." He takes a deep, rasping breath. "It's a genetic disease, rare and incurable. The main symptom is uncontrolled growth of flesh and bone. My skull is growing inward as well as outward, and in less than six months it'll squash my brain to jelly." He steps away from my wheelchair and sits on the hospital bed, bouncing jauntily on the mattress. "But enough about me. I didn't sneak out of my room to talk about myself. I came here to talk about you, Mr. Adam Armstrong. You have muscular dystrophy?"

From the corner of my eye I see Zia move to the other side of the room. She's inspecting the heart monitor now. It's really distracting to have this beautiful girl wandering around, but I force myself to pay attention to Marshall. "Yeah, I have Duchenne muscular dystrophy. That's the most common type."

"And there's another dystrophy boy, isn't there? DeShawn?"

"Yeah, but he's in a more advanced stage."

"I haven't visited him yet, but I hear he's rather unresponsive." Marshall lies down on the bed, making himself comfortable. "It's funny, don't you think, how we use our diseases to label ourselves? You know, the dystrophy boys, the cancer girls, the Elephant Man. We define ourselves by what's going to kill us."

I shake my head. "I disagree. I'm more than just an illness."

"Really?"

"Definitely. I'm a New Yorker. I'm a Giants fan. I'm good with computers."

Lying on his back, Marshall slides his glovelike right hand under his skull, probably to ease the strain on his neck. "What do you mean by 'good with computers'? Are you a programmer?"

"Yeah, my specialty is virtual reality. I've written some pretty cool software."

I hear a dismissive grunt from the other side of the room. Although Zia is still staring at the heart monitor, she seems to be following the conversation. Marshall's eyes flick toward her, then back to me. His right eye, I notice, is larger than his left. "Well, I know absolutely nothing about software. I'm terrible at all that math-and-computers stuff. I'm more of a literature-and-fine-arts type. I write poetry, believe it or not."

It's hard to interpret Marshall's facial expressions because they're so distorted, but he seems to be getting serious now. As I get accustomed to his appearance, it becomes easier to talk to him. "Where are you from?" I ask.

"A small town in Alabama called Monroeville. It wasn't such a bad place for me, all in all. When the hospital bills started to pile up, the neighbors were very supportive of my mother. And she needed all the support she could get."

I remember seeing his mother, the haggard, foul-mouthed woman who sat next to him in the auditorium. "Did she raise you alone?"

"Oh yes. As she often reminded me, it's tough to find a husband when your house is a freak show." With a groan, he heaves himself back up to a sitting position. His chunky legs dangle over the edge of the bed. "In a way, though, our poverty was a blessing in disguise. Because I was getting charity treatments at an Army hospital near Monroeville, my name got on the list of recruits for the Pioneer Project. General Hawke worked strictly with Army hospitals to keep the selection process secret." He smiles again, widening his mouth. "But look at this, we're talking about me again. Let's talk about the other Pioneers instead. You know Shannon Gibbs, correct?"

I'm a little thrown by the sudden change of subject. "Yeah, we're both from Yorktown Heights. My dad heard she had terminal brain cancer, so he told her parents about the project."

"I talked to her already, right after I got here. She's a math-and-science type too. Do you like her?"

Now I'm thrown again. Marshall is doing a good job of keeping me off balance. "Uh, yeah, I like her. She's smart, that's for sure."

"And what about Jenny Harris? Her father is quite important, you know. What do you think of her?"

I shrug. "I'm surprised she volunteered. Her parents were so opposed to the idea."

"But do you like her?"

"Come on, this is ridiculous. I don't know the first thing about her."

Marshall lets out a snort. I can't be sure, but I think this means he's amused. "Of course, how could I forget? You prefer Zia, don't you? I caught you staring at her in the auditorium." He swings his massive head, looking over his shoulder. "Zia, you have an admirer."

She finally steps away from the heart monitor. I see her gorgeous eyes again, but now they're narrowed and fierce. She glares at me, her brow furrowing. As her muscles tense, the cobra above her ear stretches a few millimeters. "I don't need any admirers. And I don't like people staring at me."

Her voice is low and menacing. I have no idea why she's so angry. With my paralyzed legs and arm, I'm not much of a threat.

"I stared at you because I was curious," I say. "You look pretty healthy, compared with the rest of us."

"You think I'd be here if I wasn't sick? Does that make sense to you?"

"Hey, chill out. I was trying to give you a compliment."

"That's another thing I don't need." She sneers at me, pressing her lips together. "I have cancer, just like the other girls. But you don't see me crying about it. I've seen worse things than cancer."

"You have to forgive Zia," Marshall interjects. "She's had a difficult past. Her parents died when she was young, and she's been in and out of foster homes ever since. Isn't that right, Zia?"

Ignoring him, she approaches my wheelchair. With her left hand she taps the cobra tattoo above her ear. "You see this tat? I got it done in Central Juvenile Hall. That's the worst detention center in LA. In all of California, probably. I was doing a six-month sentence for slashing a guy's face." She lowers her hand and pokes me in the chest. "And you know why I cut him? Because he was staring at me."

I shake my head. Her level of hostility is ridiculous. "So how did you end up here? Did General Hawke do a recruiting tour of juvenile detention centers?"

"You think that's funny?"

"No, I'm serious. I can't figure out what you're doing here. You seem completely unstable."

"Shut up!" Zia grabs the arms of my wheelchair and leans over me. "If anyone doesn't belong here, it's you!"

Marshall rises from the bed and comes toward us. "All right, Zia. Calm down. Please back away from your new friend Adam. I have a feeling this relationship isn't going to work out."

Zia waits a few seconds, baring her teeth and breathing on me. Then she lets go of my wheelchair and steps away in disgust. "Look at him. It's worse than I thought."

Marshall shrugs. "I don't know about that. He seems to have some spunk."

"You're dreaming, Baxley. He'll never make it." She sneers at me again, then heads for the door. "I'm out of here."

She darts out of the room, quiet as a cat. I take a deep breath as she disappears down the corridor. To be honest, I was a little worried when she grabbed my wheelchair. For a second I really thought she would smack me.

She left the door open, so Marshall closes it. "My apologies, Adam. That didn't go so well, did it?"

"Yeah, no kidding. What's her problem? She acts like a gangster."

"As a matter of fact, she did belong to a gang in Los Angeles. The Twelfth Street Bloods, she told me."

"Great, that's just great. How did Hawke find her?"

"She said her father was a captain in the Army, serving under Hawke. After her father died, the general kept in touch with her. He must've recommended her for the project when he learned she had cancer."

"And now we have a psycho on our team."

"That's a strong word, Adam. I wouldn't go that far. But it's true that Zia has some trouble controlling her feelings. And right now she's feeling a little negative about you."

"Why? Because I stared at her in the auditorium?"

"No, because you're first in line for the procedure. And she thinks she should be first."

I feel a surge of irritation. "You're joking, right? Does it really make a difference who goes first?"

"Actually it does." Marshall steps closer to my wheelchair. "You see, Zia and I have been talking about what will happen if the first attempt isn't a success. The procedure didn't work for the adult volunteers, and it may not work for all of us either. General Hawke said you need a strong, resilient personality to successfully transfer your mind to the electronic circuits."

Standing beside my wheelchair, Marshall looks straight down at me. I can't interpret the expression on his face, but I can read his body language, and it's a little threatening. I return his stare. "Yeah, I remember Hawke said something like that."

"What Hawke didn't say was what he'd do if the first attempt fails. I realize that the Army has spent a great deal of money on this project, and Hawke doesn't seem like the kind of man who gives up easily. But if the first try is unsuccessful, he may reconsider the whole experiment. He wouldn't want to continue killing children if he can't save their minds. That's why we're concerned about you. If you fail, the rest of us may not even get a chance. The Army will send us back home and we'll die in our beds."

Marshall's head looms over me like one of those big African masks carved in dark wood. I know what he wants to say next, and I don't like it one bit. "So you and Zia are worried that I'm not strong enough to make it?"

"I'll be honest with you, Adam. Zia believes your father was playing favorites when he put you first in line. So we decided to pay you a visit to find out if we were in trouble or not. It was a bit of a test, if you know what I mean."

I know exactly what he means. They were studying me. They came to my room to see how tough I am. I'm angry and hurt, but mostly I'm disappointed. I thought I could make some new friends among the Pioneers, but Zia is a bully and Marshall is a weasel.

My chest aches from talking for so long, but I'm determined not to show any weakness. I raise my right hand and point at Marshall. "Well, I have a message for you and Zia. I'm stronger than both of you." I shift my hand, pointing at the door. "Now get out of my room."

Marshall stands there for a few seconds, staring. Then he reaches into the pocket of his jeans. "Yes, I had a feeling you might get upset. It's understandable. We've been somewhat deceptive." He pulls a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. "So I thought ahead and prepared a peace offering, a little gift to make amends for my doubts about you. It's a poem written by Joseph Merrick, the original Elephant Man. He adapted it from an old hymn and put it at the end of all his letters. But here's the strange thing: when I read the poem now, I think of the Pioneer Project." He unfolds the paper, drops it in my lap, and steps toward the door. "Good-bye, Adam. And good luck tomorrow."

I wait until the door closes and I can no longer hear Marshall's footsteps in the corridor. Then I pick up the paper and read the poem.

'Tis true my form is something odd, But blaming me is blaming God; Could I create myself anew, I would not fail in pleasing you.

If I could reach from pole to pole Or grasp the ocean with a span, I would be measured by the soul; The mind's the standard of the man.

Dad returns to my room ten minutes later. He apologizes for the delay-General Hawke had some last-minute questions-then tells me everything I need to know about tomorrow's procedure.

His voice is calm and patient. He warns me that I can't be sedated. If the doctors give me sedatives to put me to sleep, the drugs would alter my brain chemistry and distort the copying of my memories. So I have to stay awake during the injection of the nanoprobes and the period afterward when the probes are spreading through my brain tissue. But Dad reassures me that I won't feel any pain, not even when the scanner blasts its radiation into my head. The brain, unlike most organs in the body, has no pain receptors. Although it's impossible to predict exactly what I'll feel as the scanner records the patterns of my mind, at least I won't be in agony.

As Dad describes what will happen to me, he takes off my clothes and prepares me for bed. He's done this so many times before that it's almost automatic. His hands seem to move of their own accord, unzipping and unbuttoning. For years I've been embarrassed by the intimacy of this ritual, but now I know this is the last time Dad will put me to bed and I realize there's something comforting about it. My fears subside and my eyes start to close as he wipes and washes and diapers me.

I'm nearly asleep by the time he lays me down on the stiff mattress of the hospital bed. Struggling to keep my eyes open, I look up at him. "Dad? Why did you put me first?"

"What?"

"For the procedure. The first Pioneer."

He grabs a folded blanket from the foot of the bed. It's a gray, wool Army blanket. "Because I knew you could handle it. The other volunteers will probably be fine too, but I can't be certain about them. I don't know them as well as I know you."

"So you think I'm strong enough?"

"Of course. Adam, you're the strongest person I know."

With a snap of his wrists, he shakes out the blanket. It billows over the bed, then gently settles on top of me.

CHAPTER.

9.

The next morning Dad dresses me in a green hospital gown. Then the Army doctors come into my room and move me from the bed to a gurney.

I feel somewhat detached as they wheel me down the corridors of Pioneer Base. It's as if all of this is happening to someone else, a stranger with a shaved head. This feeling of detachment is helpful-it keeps me calm and unafraid. But then we enter the operating room and I see the scanning machine. It's big and white and shaped like a giant doughnut with a three-foot-wide hole at its center. A long, stretcher-like table extends from the central hole of the scanner, and on the table is something that looks like a steel cage. I start trembling when I see the cage, which is about the size of a bread box. They're going to put my head in that thing.

Dad notices my reaction. He strides to the table and rests his hand on the cage. "This is called a stereotactic frame," he says. "It'll keep your head steady so we can inject the nanoprobes in the right places. To make sure you're comfortable, the doctors will put some local anesthetic at the points where the frame is secured to your head." He returns to the gurney and touches my temples. "Don't worry. The anesthetic is like Novocaine, the stuff you get at the dentist's. It just makes the skin numb. The doctors will also put some on the injection sites."

This is a strategy Dad's used on me before. He overcomes my fears by lecturing me to death. While the Army doctors carry me to the table and strap me down, Dad tells me more details about the procedure. He describes how the nanoprobes will spread through my brain tissue until each cell is studded with tiny gold spheres. Then he points at the scanner and shows how the X-ray tubes on the rim of the central hole will fire pulses of radiation at my head.

He explains what will happen to the nanoprobes when they absorb the radiation, how the gold spheres will flash like microscopic X-ray beacons. Then he turns back to the scanner and points at the hundreds of X-ray cameras that line the rim. These cameras will detect the flashes of radiation inside my head and calculate the positions of the nanoprobes, creating a detailed, three-dimensional map of my brain.

His strategy works, at least partially. Dad's lecture distracts me from the doctors while they anesthetize my scalp. I realize of course that he's leaving something out. He doesn't describe how the high-energy X-rays will rip through my brain cells, bursting their membranes and shattering their DNA. But I stay calm until my head is locked into the stereotactic frame and the doctors position their bone drills next to the injection sites.

Dad leans over me and slips a pair of headphones over my ears. "You need something to drown out the noise of the drills." He shows me an iPod that's connected to the headphones. "I downloaded some of the songs you like."