Impostors

by Scott Westerfeld

  How does Rafi stand all this attention? How does she remember who she really is, underneath all the layers of fashion and rumors and gossip? No wonder she has those temper tantrums.

  I wonder if she ever wants to trade lives with me, if only for the chance to punch something.

  I switch to the news. Here in Victoria, I can watch the global feeds instead of Shreve propaganda. It’s weird how everything is laid out in such a matter-of-fact way, without the music or eye-dazzling headlines.

  My father’s forces sortied into the mountains last night, destroying a rebel camp a hundred klicks from the ruins. Maybe this will all be over soon and I can go home.

  Of course, I can’t count on that. So while I listen, I work on my escape kit.

  I’ve been gathering useful things, leaving them around the room, ready to be swept up if I have to run. So far it’s dried fruit brought back from meals, a few plastic bags for collecting rainwater, my self-cleaning sweats, a firestarter. This morning’s work is adding an improvised weapon to the mix—a sharp-edged light fixture that I loosen from the wall as I pretend to stretch.

  A pulse knife would be better.

  My head still throbs and buzzes from the party. I miss training. I’m going soft here in Victoria. Naya will kill me if I come back home over my fighting weight. But calorie purger pills make me jittery, and I’m jittery enough already.

  Of course, Aribella already knows I’m dangerous, so maybe it doesn’t matter if I do some pushups.

  Halfway into my workout, my cyrano pings—another hidden message from Rafi.

  I tap it and keep exercising.

  You’re killing me, Frey.

  It’s bad enough my dress got ruined, but did you have to make me look like such a face-missing wallflower! And crushing on Col Palafox? Really? What if he speaks French to you?

  Or have you two been too busy to talk?

  Ugh. Don’t tell me.

  By which I mean, yes—definitely tell me.

  A grin creeps onto my face. Rafi sounds almost jealous.

  She’s stuck in hiding, of course, with no parties of her own. But the thought of her living vicariously through my social life is the most brain-missing thing ever.

  Out the window, a flock of pigeons wheels around the distant cathedral spire, exuberant and playful. My hand tingles where Col kissed me.

  Is this what it feels like to have my own life?

  That’s what kills me, Frey—that you can’t even tell me what’s going on. If you’re getting clothes-missing for the first time ever without your big sister there to counsel you, it’s an outrage.

  I take a slow breath.

  Clothes-missing? That’s a laugh. Col’s lips barely brushed my hand.

  If Rafi were here, she could figure out what’s actually going on between me and him. Allies is the only word we’ve said out loud. Is that more or less than friends?

  But he kissed my hand …

  I should research what that means here in Victoria, just ask the city interface about local romance customs.

  But Palafox security would notice—that doesn’t sound like something Rafi would have to ask. She’d just know.

  Throw me a clue, Frey. If you and that boy have shared so much as a meaningful look, wear the scarlet jacket today—the one with too many buttons on the sleeves. But if there’s nothing going on, wear my white jacket.

  Red for passion. White for lonely and cold. Surely you can remember that.

  Send me a sign, Frey. Entertain me—I’m going crazy here!

  But really, I hope it’s the white jacket. I mean, really. He’s the first boy you’ve ever talked to!

  Love you, little sister. But take it from your sensei—you don’t know anything yet.

  The recording ends, and the last words ring in my ears.

  Sensei. That’s not a word she would ever use casually. Not since Noriko disappeared.

  Rafi’s trying to send me a message that no one else would catch, something deadly important. But I can’t figure it out.

  She’s right. I don’t know anything.

  And suddenly it’s all so embarrassing. Was my father listening while she recorded it? Does he care what’s going on between me and Col?

  Which is probably nothing. Col’s lips on the back of my hand must be some crumbly Victorian tradition, like calligraphy or novel writing.

  But the look he gave me after …

  There’s a knock at the door. Not a ping, knuckles on wood.

  “Come in.”

  The door swings open, and it’s Col.

  He gives me a puzzled look. I’m in pajamas, my hair frazzled, sweaty. Hardly a state Rafi would receive visitors in.

  Now that I’ve started telling people my secrets, the rest of my act is falling apart.

  “I thought we’d tour the roof garden before lunch,” he says, making the hand sign for We’re being watched.

  “That sounds lovely, Col. I’ll be dressed in … forty minutes?”

  He nods, looking reassured.

  That, at least, was a very Rafi thing to say.

  The roof of House Palafox is covered with sharp things—antennae slicing into the sky, the spinning blades of windmills, a garden full of cactuses.

  The succulents come in all sizes, from spiky soccer balls to three-meter, splay-armed giants. Some are abloom with tiny flowers, surrounded by sizzling galaxies of bees.

  “Les murs n’ont pas d’oreilles,” Col says.

  The walls don’t have ears, my cyrano translates.

  I look around. No security drones, no smart walls. Unless one of the bees is a nanocam, he’s probably right.

  No newsfeed hovercams either. Which is good, because I haven’t chosen a jacket yet.

  Like my sister said, I don’t know anything.

  Col gestures toward my ear. “That’s listening, isn’t it?”

  I shrug. “It’s just a cyrano. I’m terrible at names.”

  “Jefa says the house scanners can’t crack it, which means it’s serious tech.” He gives me a look. “It could be reporting back to your father.”

  I roll my eyes. I know more about spyware than romance.

  “It’s strictly passive. Your house security would notice if it started transmitting. But if it makes you happy.” I drop the cyrano in my pocket.

  Col doesn’t know it’s always listening.

  We stand there in awkward silence for a moment.

  “The party was lovely,” I say.

  Col gives me a sheepish smile. “Jefa was pleased. No complaints about us disappearing.”

  So Aribella is okay with something happening between me and Col. Or at least she’s fine with the rest of the city thinking there is.

  But what does Col think?

  That tingle is still there where he kissed me.

  Naya’s voice pops into my head. So many nerves in the hand—it’s the best way to take down a stronger foe.

  I know how to break fingers. But not how to kiss someone.

  “Yandre pinged me this morning,” Col says. “They talked to their brother, the rebel sympathizer, about that slogan—‘She’s not coming to save us.’ Turns out she is Tally Youngblood.”

  A little tremor rolls through me. The rebels have their own saint, of course. “But what does it mean?”

  “Exactly what it says. Tally’s not coming back. We have to save ourselves.”

  That’s not news to me.

  I turn away, looking around the rooftop, mapping the shape of the building against the layout of the floors below.

  Making escape plans is something I know all about.

  A few of the trees in the courtyard garden have grown higher than the roofline. It wouldn’t be too hard to climb up here from the garden.

  “You think the knife is charged yet?” Col asks.

  “Too soon. Do you miss hunting that much?”

  “I miss people not taking my stuff.” He gazes off at the mountains. “But sure. I like surviving off the land, being connected to the
wild.”

  I laugh. “You connect to nature by eating it? I hope the same doesn’t apply to your friends.”

  “Is that what we are?”

  Right. We’ve only said allies so far.

  Col is giving me one of his intense looks, which must mean something. But who knows what? I’ve never really made a friend before. I’ve only ever had one, and she’s my twin sister.

  “If you want to be friends, sure.”

  “Great.” He nods a little and turns away.

  Somehow I’m doing this wrong.

  “Speaking of eating nature: These nopales are tasty.” He’s switched into his tour guide voice, pointing to a cluster of flat-armed cactuses, like oblong dinner plates covered with red flowers. “They’re on the lunch menu today.”

  “Not exactly hungry-making.” I reach out and touch one of the cactuses, expecting it to stab me—and it does. “Ow. Why does everything up here have spikes?”

  “Spines,” Col corrects me. “Furry ones to keep insects away. Big needle ones for mammals like me and you.”

  “So a cactus is afraid of everything?”

  Col looks at me meaningfully. “When you’ve got water in the desert, you have to protect yourself.”

  He’s talking about the ruins, of course. Metal is the thing that every city wants, like water in a desert.

  “What kind of spines does your family have?” I ask.

  “Sharp ones. This morning, I asked Jefa what she’ll do if your father refuses to leave our ruins.”

  I frown. “She didn’t mention throwing me in a dungeon, I hope?”

  “No. She’s still keeping that a secret from me. But she said we have some surprises in store for your father. He’s not the only one waking up old weapons.”

  “That’ll only make things worse.”

  “For him.”

  I shake my head. “Whenever things don’t go his way, he escalates. When he’s caught in a lie, he tells a bigger one. When someone resists, he hits them harder.”

  When someone took his child, he made two more.

  “We’re not afraid of him,” Col says.

  “Then why does your mother need me as a hostage?”

  “To save lives. We don’t want to fight.” He looks off at the mountains. “Even if the first families don’t fight all-out Rusty wars, soldiers still die. By having you here, Jefa’s trying to show your father another way. Negotiation instead of violence.”

  So Aribella thinks she’s playing my father.

  “She scares me a little,” I say.

  “Très drôle. Considering who your father is.”

  “Je suppose,” I manage, pleased that I didn’t need my cyrano. Drôle means the same in French as it does in English.

  Col thinks I’m funny.

  “There’s something you might want to see,” he says.

  “Is it edible and spiny?”

  Col smiles, leading me to the western edge of the roof, facing the mountains. “The best view of the city.”

  It’s not. We’re looking down a jumble of narrow alleyways, through a part of Victoria that’s old and earth-bound. No soaring fairy-tale towers or bright colors.

  But it’s the perfect neighborhood to disappear into.

  Col glances down at a plastic box at our feet, marked with the fire escape symbol. Bungee jackets.

  A tangle of thoughts goes through my head. He’s helping me make escape plans. He really is an ally.

  Or maybe something more. After all, he’s betraying his own family for me.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  Col shrugs. “No one should be a prisoner just because of who their father is.”

  The strange thing is, I’ve never felt like a prisoner here in Victoria. Before I came here, my whole life was spent behind locked doors and impenetrable walls. A prisoner is what I’ve always been.

  It’s like Col knows that somehow, and he wants to save me.

  He leans over the parapet. “That long alley leads to the edge of the city, with a few twists and turns.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I can do.” Col looks like he’s about to say something more—but he turns away. “I should dress for lunch. We’ll be on the south terrace. With all the gossip about last night, there’ll be newscams snooping around.”

  So whatever I wear will be in the feeds, and Rafi will be watching with keen eyes. But I don’t know which jacket. Not yet.

  And I don’t know why she said sensei.

  We head back down to my room in uncertain silence, everything unsaid still lingering between us.

  At my door I hesitate. “It’s nice to have a friend here.”

  Col doesn’t answer, just gives me another silent look. We’re back inside, where the house can hear us, so maybe he can’t say what he’s thinking. But I can’t resist asking.

  “What is it?” I whisper.

  “Nothing,” he says softly. “Just … parfois je me perds dans tes yeux.”

  Crap. That’s too much French all at once. I have no idea what it means.

  Was it a clue about an escape route? Something droll about the lunch menu?

  I give him one of Rafi’s looks of amusement.

  “That’s … lovely.”

  “Ah, sorry,” Col says. He takes a step back, his expression darkening.

  He’s apologizing. I’ve messed something up.

  But I can’t confess how terrible my French is. I’ve spilled enough of my secrets to the Palafoxes.

  Col is walking away, and I say nothing.

  Once the door’s shut, I pull the cyrano from my pocket, praying it caught whatever he said. I head to the bathroom and turn on all the taps.

  “Replay last sixty seconds,” I whisper.

  His words are there at the edge of hearing. But I still don’t know what they mean.

  “Translate?” I plead, and it’s awful to hear it in my father’s voice.

  Sometimes I get lost in your eyes.

  I stand there, steam building around me, not caring if Palafox security wonders what this is all about. What matters is what I do next.

  That look of amusement on my face after he said the words—he must have thought I’d turned back into Rafi. Arch and superior and too detached for any sentiment so simple and so sweet.

  I have to fix this.

  “Ping Col Palafox,” I say to the room.

  “Message content?” the room asks.

  My heart is racing. “The message is, ‘Me too.’ End and send.”

  Then I go to the closet and stare at the red jacket.

  I should wear it for lunch—my still-racing heart is proof of that. But do I really want Rafi knowing what’s going on in my head?

  What if she laughs at me? That would be too much to bear. And Dona will be watching closely too, maybe even my father. They don’t want me compromised by some brain-missing crush.

  But Rafi’s my big sister, and she asked for a sign. She said the word sensei, so I knew how important it was.

  I have to share this with her.

  I reach for the red jacket.

  That night I wake up to a screaming sound.

  It’s a dream at first—my bed scanning me with bright shafts of light. But instead of scars and healed bones, the scanner finds a weapon buried inside me. A knife hidden in my chest, pulsing quick.

  And that’s where the dream shifts into a nightmare—an alarm shrieks, an ice pick of sound that I can’t shut out, even with my hands over my ears. As sharp and hard as anger, the alarm penetrates my body, rattles my bones, lances my frenzied heart.

  Finally I sputter awake, look around in a panic. The screaming doesn’t stop, as if I’m still dreaming.

  Then I realize it’s the cyrano, jittering on my bedside table.

  It must be malfunctioning.

  “Quiet!” I tell it.

  The noise shuts off.

  I pick it up, hesitantly put it in my ear—if the shrieking starts again, it’ll deafen me. But it
speaks calmly now.

  Emergency message.

  I tap it, and my sister’s voice rushes into my head.

  I’m so sorry, Frey. He wouldn’t let me warn you until now. It’s because you wore that stupid red jacket. How could you be so brain-missing?

  After what I said, couldn’t you tell you were supposed to wear the white one?

  How could you not know it was a test? That he made me do it?

  Now he thinks you’ll put Col before him. That you won’t follow orders. That you’ll warn them!

  I sit up in bed. Warn them about what?

  He’s moved up the timetable—we’re pushing the Palafoxes out of the ruins tonight.

  The attack starts in two minutes.

  My eyes blink, trying to resolve meaning in the darkness. It’s like being in the dream again. My body lanced by scanning rays, my heart vibrating fast as a pulse knife.

  I take slow breaths to calm myself. I have an escape kit. This is something I know how to do. Something I’ve been getting ready for my whole life.

  But all my reflexes and training falter when it hits me—

  My father only thinks I’m worth two minutes’ warning.

  I cling to my sister’s voice.

  All you have to do is get to the ruins, Frey. We’ll take control of them first, like everyone expects.

  Come in from the south, on foot. The soldiers won’t dare shoot. They still think you’re me.

  You’ll be fine. You can do this.

  Yes—escaping, fighting my way out. I’m Frey, the one who uses her fists.

  This is the only thing I know how to do.

  I spring up from the bed, jump into my sweats and running shoes and jacket. Shove my stolen dried fruit, firestarter, and plastic bags into the pockets. A desperate idea hits me, and I grab the tulle lining of my ball gown.

  With one kick, the loosened light fixture flies off the wall. It fits in my hand perfectly, metal edges glinting in the dark.

  The house security must have heard my cyrano screaming, and they’ve seen my curious behavior. They’ll be sending someone up to check on me.

  If my father had given me more time, I could’ve gotten ready quietly, stealthily. But he doesn’t trust me anymore.