Altered

by Gennifer Albin

  “Valery,” I breathe.

  “What?” Jost asks, confused by the change in conversation.

  “It’s Valery,” I say, grabbing his arm to turn his attention to the other side of the street. The woman has passed before he can catch more than her fading shape. She’s moving quickly and with purpose.

  “Valery is dead,” Jost reminds me in a gentle voice.

  I know that. At least, she should be dead. A victim of retribution for the suicide of Enora, my mentor at the Coventry and Valery’s lover. Loricel told me Valery had been ripped the night Loricel warned me of Cormac’s plans to remap me, and yet I’m positive of what I’ve seen. “It’s her.”

  I don’t wait for him to argue with me. Valery is growing smaller in my vision, her figure blurring with each step she takes away from us, and I follow her. I don’t run. That seems a sure way to draw unwanted attention to yourself in a place like the grey market, but I move quickly enough that I keep her in my sight until she turns a corner.

  Skidding around the building she disappeared past, I realize I’m on the edge of the grey market. The buildings stretching before me are better maintained. Most have signs, and many are already closed. But Valery is nowhere in sight, which means she’s gone into one that’s still open. Doors are locked, lights turned off, and then I stumble upon a door that creaks open when I touch it. The lights are on in the store, revealing a cluttered room full of books and knick-knacks strewn in piles along the floor and filling tables. It will be a miracle if I can even walk around. But someone could hide here. I have no reason to suspect Valery saw me, but if she did, I wouldn’t blame her for wanting to avoid me.

  That doesn’t mean I am going to let her.

  THREE

  I GLANCE AT THE SIGN HANGING ON a post by the door: THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. Curious indeed. After a few moments navigating the store, I see no signs of life, but what I do find holds my attention: relics from a forgotten world, particularly an old radio. I forget my quest and stare at it, tentatively reaching out to touch its buttons, but it’s as dead as the one hidden in the secret cubby in my parents’ home. A product of yesterday, and nothing more.

  I’ll have lost Valery completely by now, if it was even her at all, so I linger in the store and riffle through the books, knocking years of dust off them. A copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets catches my eye. I read it over and over as a child, stealing it from the stash of contraband in my parents’ room. We had a few books, and if my parents minded my reading them, they certainly never said anything. I understand now how precious they were, and more than anything I want to take this volume with me. I couldn’t protect those books. I couldn’t protect my parents, but I can have a piece of them again.

  “Not many young people are interested in books these days,” a raspy voice says. A face, lined and gaunt, follows the words, appearing in the doorway. The woman limps over, resting against a cane, and I notice that one of her feet is made of steel and wood.

  “My parents had it,” I tell her. “I read it as a child.”

  “Quite the luxury,” she says. “Books and having the time to teach your child to read.”

  I pause, not sure how to respond. This conversation is heading in a dangerous direction. Many of the Icebox’s inhabitants are refugees, but that doesn’t make it any safer to admit I am one myself.

  “Keep it,” she offers.

  “I couldn’t,” I say. “Not without paying.”

  The shop owner seems to grow an inch at the mention of payment. She can’t do much business selling radios that don’t work and books that can’t be read.

  “I don’t have any money though,” I admit.

  “Well,” she mutters, shaking her head, “at least you can read.”

  “I have this,” I say, unlatching an earring. I only offer her one, because I know the emeralds in the pair are real and because I know the boys will be furious if I come back missing both. We’ve been hawking our possessions strategically and we’ve been saving the earrings until we have a plan for getting back to Arras and need real money.

  “You’re either proud or an idiot,” she says, but she accepts the earring. “Look around, take some more of this junk off my hands. An emerald for a book isn’t a fair trade, child.”

  I pocket the sonnets and consider asking for the radio, but purely out of nostalgia. It will do us no good, and I’ll be forced to abandon it as soon as we are on the move again. Instead I trail my fingers along the dusty spines of books. The books my parents kept were full of stories and poetry, but many of the books on these shelves recall the history of Earth. It’s the information I’ve been seeking. This woman has been collecting it for me, safeguarding the information against the entropy that envelops so much of this world. I wonder how many generations of owners stacked these shelves and traded the past before her.

  The tinkle of a bell interrupts my thoughts, and I turn quickly to the door to see who has entered. In my haste, I knock a few books off the shelf, but the old woman has vanished into the recesses of the shop, so I retrieve them quickly before she notices. Jost appears at my side, looking decidedly displeased.

  “What was that about?” he demands, not bothering to bend down and help me.

  “Valery. I couldn’t let her disappear,” I say, stacking the books neatly. “But I lost her, and this was the only shop open—”

  He stops me. “Your earring.” My hand flies to my naked earlobe, but it’s too late to cover it up.

  “I traded it,” I admit in a low voice, but inwardly I gather up strength and stand to face him.

  “For what?” he says. His voice is soft, but it isn’t kind.

  “A book,” I say. “More than one actually. Who knows what we might find out.”

  Jost grabs the books and slams them down on the shelf, and as he does he knocks a stack of papers to the floor. “Have some respect,” I hiss as I snatch the brittle pages, but they aren’t just paper. They’re Bulletins full of old news.

  He starts in on respect and scaring him to death and throwing away resources, but I only hear snatches of what he says because I’m reading the headline neatly printed in block letters on faded, yellow paper:

  HOPE AGAINST TYRANNY:

  SCIENCE

  OFFERS AN

  END TO WAR

  May 1, 1943—Preliminary studies termed the Cypress Project indicate the end of World War II is in sight. According to sources within the project, investors visited the laboratories for a presentation on the viability of the looms, which have been funded by twelve allied nations in cooperation with generous contributions from individuals in the private sector. The visit was necessary to secure permission to proceed to human trials of the project.

  The war departments of all twelve nations involved with the Cypress Project have issued a call for healthy young women between the ages of sixteen and thirty years to serve as test pilots on the looms. For the first time in American history, chosen women will be considered as enlisted troops in the U.S. Army.

  But it’s the photograph that I can’t process: a scientist demonstrating on a loom for a group of men who wear ties and horn-rimmed glasses. Hardly anyone in Arras wears glasses these days, thanks to renewal tech, but aside from the spectacles, most of the men in the clipping could pass as current officials in Arras. One in particular. Maybe Jost is right, and I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I’m seeing ghosts.

  Jost shakes me, abandoning his rant to get my attention. “Ad!”

  I don’t know what to say, so I hold the paper out to him. He takes it and the color drains from his face.

  I’m not the only one seeing ghosts.

  “How can that be possible?” he asks me.

  “A coincidence?” I offer, but no part of me believes it.

  “A family member?”

  I nod, because even if I can’t accept these explanations, I can’t comprehend what Cormac Patton’s picture is doing in a Bulletin clipping from Earth that has to be almost two hundred years old. The man looks like him th
ough, right down to his smooth jaw and dark eyes.

  “Find anything?” the shop owner asks, hobbling toward us. She bobs her head in greeting at Jost but doesn’t seem excited to see another poor young person.

  “Can you tell us about this?” Jost asks, passing her the paper to inspect. Her eyes slit in concentration but then familiarity dawns in her expression and she leans back on her cane.

  “The Cypress Project,” she says with a sigh. “That’s all.”

  “That’s all?” I repeat. The Cypress Project. I’ve never heard of it, although I know of Cypress, Arras’s capital metro. The name sends a tingle slithering through my skin.

  “Your parents taught you to read,” she says, annoyance seeping into her gravelly voice, “but they didn’t bother to tell you how it happened?”

  “You remember it, though?” I ask. “The Cypress Project?”

  “Of course,” she says. “You don’t forget that. You don’t forget being left behind.”

  “Tell us,” I say, taking her hand gently. “I want to know too.”

  Her eyes soften, but then they fall to our hands, clasped tenuously together.

  “Get out!” she howls, wrenching her hand from mine like I’ve bitten her.

  I fall back against Jost in surprise and his arm circles protectively around me.

  “Please!” I beg. “What do you mean ‘left behind’?”

  “What the Guild of Twelve Nations did was reprehensible,” she seethes, raising her cane and pointing it at us. “But your kind, what you do, that’s worse. Rebellion and violence—an endless cycle. The Kairos Agenda is unwelcome here. I want no part of it. I’ve lost enough already. Get out!”

  Jost pulls me to the door, but I can’t tear my eyes from the accusation blazing on her face. It is as though she knows who I am, what I can do, but how is that possible? Bringing my hand up to push Jost’s arm off mine, ready to turn and flee, I see what she saw. The same mark that caught the girl’s attention last week. A mark so I’ll remember who I am. A mark that told her who I was. I raise the hourglass techprint to her as Jost drags me to the exit.

  “This?” I ask. “Is this it?”

  “You’ve been marked, girl,” she snarls. “And I’ll have no part of it.” We’re out the door now, and as she clutches the entrance’s frame, her shouts echo against the buildings around us. “Give me that paper back.”

  Jost shoves it into his pocket, and we dart away. I don’t feel guilty for taking it. She got fair payment. She only wants to keep it from me, but she doesn’t know who I am.

  No more than I do apparently.

  The shop owner limps onto the sidewalk hurling obscenities at us as we go, and calling, “Thief!” But no one this close to the grey market cares. Not at this hour. Until someone does—a figure appearing from the fog cast about us.

  “Hold up there,” he says. “What’s old Greta screeching about?”

  FOUR

  STEPPING CLOSER TO THE STRANGER, I REALIZE it’s the same Sunrunner I saw examining the solar lamp before Valery appeared. He’s young, not much older than I am. Even though I know he can’t be Guild—not here in the Icebox—his presence, the dominant way he stands, blocking our path, makes me anxious. There’s something familiar in his stance—maybe his self-assuredness reminds me of Erik—but it feels like more than that. His hair is cropped close to his head, and even though I can’t see them in the dark, I know his eyes are brown.

  I’m not sure how I know that.

  Greta continues her hysterical ravings behind us, and Jost attempts to step around the Sunrunner, but he holds up his hand.

  “What’s this about, Greta?” the Sunrunner calls out to her.

  Jost could probably take him, but he doesn’t move. I could use my own considerable skills to get away, but I’m rooted to the spot by the familiarity I feel. The Sunrunners patrol the nicer blocks of the Icebox during the designated commerce hours, but even they’re indoors once darkness arrives.

  “They’re thieves and hooligans,” she rants.

  “Is this true?” he asks us.

  Jost squares his shoulders and takes a step closer to him. “No, we paid her more than what an old book is worth.”

  Greta hobbles closer to us, and when she hears this, she shakes her cane again. “No amount is enough when dealing with your type.”

  “Hey now.” The stranger stops her. “I’ve never seen these two before, so I know they can’t be too much trouble.”

  The only reason he thinks this is because he hasn’t seen us before. I know differently.

  Greta screws up her face and gives a large huff. “I didn’t ask for your help, Sunrunner. You’re as bad as they are, so maybe you don’t mind keeping company with thieves.”

  “Some of my best friends are thieves,” he says, his lip tugging up. The movement, though slight, flashes through my mind. One side curves more than the other, but his lips never give way to a smile. I’ve never seen him before but something about him is so familiar. “You should get inside. It’s after hours, and there are scarier things than an old crippled woman creeping about.”

  I dislike how he speaks to Greta. But there’s no time to call him out on it. Lockdown is imminent, which means the makeshift lighting system will power down for the evening, extinguishing the solar street lamps completely and casting the whole crumbling metro into blackness. The rumors of snatchers and cannibals replay in my mind. We have to get out of here.

  “We need to go,” I say to Jost.

  “Good riddance,” Greta calls from her shop’s door frame. “Remember, thief, you reap what you sow!”

  “Thank you for your assistance,” I tell the Sunrunner. Despite the necessity of moving on, I’m reluctant to see him go. I wish I could unravel his mystery, or, at least, the tangle of knots he’s made of my nerves. “We have a friend to find so we can take shelter.”

  “Better to let your friend find you at this hour,” he advises, but I shake my head.

  “Not how it works.”

  “Ad, he’s probably already back at the hotel. We can’t waste time looking for him when we have ten blocks to travel to get there ourselves,” Jost reminds me. His tone is practical, and it almost convinces me, but I’m skeptical enough of his motives to insist once more that we look for Erik.

  “I’m headed back west,” the stranger says. “If you don’t mind falling in with a Sunrunner, we can check for your friend along the way and then you’re welcome to come inside our safe house near the grey market. Ten blocks is too far to safely travel at this point. The Rems will be out soon.”

  “Thanks, but—”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I interrupt Jost, whose jaw tenses at my rudeness. He doesn’t disagree with me though.

  “Excellent. Now I know you’re thieves, but I don’t know your names,” the stranger remarks as we head back toward the narrowing alleys where we left Erik.

  “I’m Adelice, and this is Jost.” It occurs to me too late that I should have lied. If the Guild is looking for us, they’ll advertise our names. Even if they’re anti-Guild, the Sunrunners might see us as something of value.

  “Dante.” He holds out a hand, which Jost shakes awkwardly as we hustle toward safety. Dante takes mine next, raising it to his lips. It’s possibly even more awkward than his handshake with Jost.

  “Thank you again,” I say, trying to sound sincere, “for stepping in back there, and for helping us now.”

  Dante’s helpful demeanor seems out of place in the Icebox. Normally I’d wonder if we were walking into a trap, but I feel inexplicable trust in Dante. I try to shake the warm tendrils of it from my head and heart, but they refuse to budge. It is this more than anything else that pushes me into following him.

  “My motives aren’t entirely pure,” Dante says. “Greta’s a cynical old crone, but something about you spooked her, and I’m eager to find out what.”

  “I have no idea,” I lie. “We were looking at books, talking with her, and she lost it. I didn’t understand
half of what she was saying. I thought she must be crazy.”

  “Greta’s angry, but she’s still firing on all cylinders. One of the few left who remembers the Exodus,” Dante says. “She said something about your type. You have no idea why?”

  “No.” I keep my eyes on the shops and sidewalks, searching for Erik. I wonder what Dante means by her remembering the Exodus.

  “No matter,” he says. “I’ll sort you out yet.”

  The statement leaves me uneasy. We might not be walking into a trap, but we aren’t going home with a friend either. The street lamps have faded completely, and only the faintest afterglow remains. The roads are empty, but every now and then I glimpse a moving shadow.

  “We won’t find your friend this late,” Dante says, a note of apology in his voice. He flips on a handlight, which is only bright enough for us to see one another.

  “He was near here when we left him,” I say, squinting to no avail. We’d have to walk right into Erik to find him now that the lamps are powered off for lockdown.

  “We’re close to the house.” Dante directs us a few doors down. His hand skims my back to guide me in the right direction and he removes it quickly, but not before my body reacts to its presence. For a fleeting second, I feel calm. Safe.

  Jost leans in to me and whispers, “He’s probably at the hotel. It’s what we agreed on if we got separated, remember? Besides he wouldn’t want you out on the street after dark.”

  He’s right, but the decision to abandon Erik doesn’t sit well with me. I trust Erik in ways that his brother can’t, but I don’t trust him to follow a plan, especially while he’s still feeling so bad about not being there for Jost before. Sooner or later, he’ll do something stupid and heroic to prove himself to his brother. I only hope it’s not tonight.

  Dante stops at a thick, dark door illuminated on either side by thin spiral bulbs that glow red. He enters a code and waits until there’s an audible click before he ushers us inside. The entry deposits us into a holding area, the concrete walls surrounding us broken only by two parallel doors.