by Lydia Kang
“My guess is, you’re female and you exist. Probably an alpha female thing, like wolves or rats—”
“If you just called me a rat, I’m going to twist both your heads off,” Vera snaps. I wonder if one of those heads includes mine.
“VERA! Go AWAY!” Wilbert half whines, half yells.
“Fine, perv. See ya.”
Wilbert slouches in relief, and his extra head sags accordingly. “Come on in.”
I follow Wilbert into the room, and he points to a circular table studded with tiny lenses. “Carus House. Top level.”
A three-dimensional hologram showing the top of our building comes into view, complete with agriplane above. Wilbert touches the image, pulls it out to expand it ten-fold. It looks like there are four levels to our part of the building.
“First, you need to know about security. Marka and I grant clearance. No one leaves or enters without permission from both of us.”
“Exactly who are you keeping out?” I ask.
“Everyone. But mostly, Aureus members. We’re valuable to them, so we have to keep a tight ship. To get in, there’s both a DNA screen and the mirror-password program—”
“Oh! That was like magic! Did you design that?”
“Yes. We’ll have to set yours up too.” Wilbert beams and his extra head pinks up. “I’m almost done with my doctorate in nanocircuitry. Marka lets me update all the security measures.”
“You’re done with college? How?” I don’t get it. This kid looks barely seventeen.
“Oh, this.” He reaches over to tap his other head, which is smooth with no eyes, nose or mouth, but has a soft downy scattering of blond hair. Once again the revulsion swells inside me. It’s like looking at a smashed bird on the street. I want to turn away, but I can’t.
“My brains take turns sleeping. It’s like having two lives in one. This one”—he taps his normal head—“is asleep now. I’m dreaming of cupcakes. Cy’s wearing a flowered apron. Heh.” He stares off into the cornerless room, and makes a face. “Ugh. Lima bean cupcakes with bloody needles stuck in them. Gross. Count on Cy to ruin a perfectly nice dream.” Wilbert finally remembers I’m sitting here, openmouthed. “So now I’m using my consciousness from this guy.” He touches the faceless lump. “There’s a network of duplicate nerves from each brain to my spinal cord and cranial nerves. It’s awesome. I get so much work done.”
“Wow. So . . . doesn’t your body get tired?”
“Sure. I can’t be running marathons twenty-four hours a day. Sometimes my body conks out, and I just read or watch movies when that happens.”
I nod with tepid enthusiasm, but inside it freaks me out. To be awake twenty-four hours a day, obsessing about everything screwed up in my life? No thanks.
“Anyway, here’s the layout of the building. Top floor is the infirmary, Cy’s lab, and his room.”
I perk up. “Cy has a lab? What kind?”
“Didn’t he show you? He was supposed to give you a tour of the labs.”
The words I’m not your cruise director replay in my brain. What a jerk.
“We each have our own lab. It’s part of the deal here. Everyone researches his or her own gift. I guess you’ll get a freebie here. Lucky.”
“Thanks,” I say, but I don’t feel lucky. The one time I could have my own lab and I don’t need it. Unless . . .
“Oh!” I peep loudly, then cover my mouth. Wilbert jumps.
“Are you okay?”
I hardly hear him. All I can think of is Dyl’s trait. With a lab, I could figure out what trait she has, a real step closer to figuring out how to get her back. But as soon as I consider it, Dad’s words slice into my consciousness.
No more labwork.
Don’t start something where failure is likely.
He’s right. I have no clue what I’m doing. Dyl’s trait might be the only thing I can grasp—the only solid step in any direction besides doing nothing—but I have zero idea where that step will lead me. What’s worse, Aureus is a monstrous opponent, and I’m just, well, me. I’m completely blind to the end of this plan.
And I’m afraid.
I inhale deeply. Dad’s not here anymore. If I could make him come back and solve my problems, I would. But I can’t reverse death. It’s one of countless things I can’t do. But maybe, maybe I can do this one thing. I silence his naysayer voice in my head.
“So. Wilbert. Tell me about these labs. I want to know everything.”
Wilbert widens his eyes at my sudden enthusiasm. “Okay, well. My lab’s on the first floor, near the kitchen. Hex’s and Vera’s are on the third floor. Although, Hex hardly uses his and Vera’s on the agriplane half the time. All our food comes from her farm there. Tastes like horse food, but it does the job. Junkyard runs for lab equipment are strictly scheduled, depending on how much bribe money we’ve got.”
I’m barely paying attention, being too engrossed in wondering where I’ll get DNA samples from Dyl. Wilbert starts talking about school, when I realize he just asked me a question.
“Huh?”
“I said, which classes are you taking right now?”
School couldn’t be farther from my mind right now. “What? Oh. The usual senior year stuff. I’m sorry, so where do I take classes?”
“Here.” Wilbert grabs the holographic building, spins it around in a glowing blur, and magnifies some rooms on the second level of Carus. He hooks a room with his finger and turns it around so I can get a 360-degree view. My stomach lurches. I could use some No-PuK right now.
“Ugh. Wilbert, can’t you just show me in person? Like a real tour?”
“Sure. C’mon.” He leads me out of the room and down the curving hallway.
“Just promise me we don’t have to do PE,” I say
“Uh. You’ll have to talk to Hex about that.”
Outstanding. After all this, I still have to deal with PE?
After a loopy ride in a transport, Wilbert ushers me to an oak-paneled door, the kind you’d find at a university library. He pushes it open.
A middle-aged man with graying hair, khaki slacks, and a brown sweater gets up from a gigantic central table to greet us.
I grab the door frame, gasping.
“Hello. And what are we learning today?”
It’s Dad.
CHAPTER 7
DAD DOESN’T REACT TO MY EARTHQUAKE-SIZED panic attack. Wilbert looks at me, then my dad, and slaps one of his two heads.
“Oh crap, crap, I’m sorry! Quit holoprof program!” he barks.
“Study hard. Good-bye!” Dad chirps pleasantly. His body shimmers and vanishes in seconds, and I cry out in pain. It takes all my power to not reach out and grab the leftover photons sparkling in front of me.
“What the heck was that about? Are you trying to make me psychotic?” I say, my whole body still quivering. I turn away so Wilbert won’t see me wipe my eyes.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry. That was Cy’s medical education program, he must have forgotten to disengage the avatar.” Wilbert peers around the room to make sure it’s really empty. “Our texts are downloaded into our holoprof program and combined with a basic teaching personality. We each pick a physical shell as our professors. It’s like having a personal tutor.”
“And why is my dad one of them?” I ask. I know it wasn’t him, but seeing his kind eyes looking rested and peaceful for once—it’s worse than a nightmare because he was there. Right there. I walk toward the wall of bookshelves, trying to shake off the feeling. I try to pull out Pride and Prejudice, but the book’s spine ripples like water under my fingertips. I guess the whole library is a hologram.
“He was teaching Cy medical stuff, on and off, in real life. It made sense at the time to model the holoprof after your dad. He even helped Cy with the programming. Here, why don’t you meet the others. You can make up one for yourself later.” Wilbert turns to the room. “Bring out the other holoprofs, please.”
I prepare myself for the worst. Elvis, maybe, or even Dyl. Thankfu
lly, a handsome young Asian guy with a muscular build materializes and steps forward, loosely draped in a kimono.
“I am Joseph. I teach Advanced Yoga and Chakra-Centered Meditation, Paleobotany, Plant Genetics, Ancient and Contemporary Agriculture, Soil Chemistry, Composting Level Five—”
Wilbert cuts him off. “Vera’s holoprof.” I nod. Joseph resembles Hex, but without the extra arms.
The second holoprof comes forward, an elderly lady with a tight mouth and pinchy eyes. “I am Professor Steele. I teach Regenerative Physiology.”
I wait for her to list more subjects, but she keeps her wrinkled lips pressed together.
“Why only one?” I ask.
“My student continues to fail my course,” she says acidly.
“Hex’s teacher,” Wilbert whispers.
“Ah.”
The last professor is a young woman dressed in a sophisticated black turtleneck, pencil skirt, and sling-back heels. She’s definitely got the sexy librarian thing down. My eyebrows come together because of her familiarity. Petite, dark eyes, and curly hair the color of espresso, neatly pulled into a chignon. She looks serious and her face is nothing out of the ordinary, but there’s something about her. She’s graceful, just standing there, and there’s strength in her brown eyes.
“Hey,” Wilbert exclaims. “Professor Weisberger looks like you!”
My doppelgänger steps forward and smiles. “Hello. I am Professor Weisberger. I teach Neural Transfer Theory, Level Four Tissue Culture Technique, Advanced Plasmid Vectors, and Human Genetics Level Five.” Her voice is higher than mine, more girlish. Compared to me and my ripped, dirt-and-blood-infused shirt and leggings, she’s a stunner.
“Er, hi,” I say to the professor, confused. I turn to Wilbert. “Why’d you pick her as your holoprof?”
“I don’t have a holoprof. I’m all bench work now. This is Cy’s other holoprof, his non-medical one.”
“How did Cy know what I looked like?”
“I don’t know. Your dad never talked about you guys. But he did help Cy tinker with both holoprofs. They were down here together quite a lot.” He sniggers. “Then again, maybe your dad had nothing to do with it. Maybe you’re just Cy’s type. Ha. Ha-ha-ha.”
I stare at him hard. I know it’s ridiculous that anyone would find me their type, but the woodpecker giggle is entirely unnecessary.
Wilbert abruptly stops laughing when he sees my face. “Well.” He waves to the holoprofs. “Thank you, professors. That will be all.” They all nod and do that same shimmery disappearing act.
Suddenly, I’m feeling self-conscious. My professor twin makes me feel as pretty as a wad of spit-out chewing gum. “Hey Wilbert, do I have a room? Maybe I could change or something,” I say, showing off my tattered sleeves.
“Sure,” he says. “VERA!” Wilbert yelps at the top of his lungs.
“Geez, Wilbert! Can’t you just show me?”
“It’s Vera’s job, not mine,” he says, bristling. “She’s always making me do her stuff. Calls me her ‘double butler,’ spelled with two t’s.” After yelling for Vera a few more times, he gives up and reluctantly leads me to my new room. None of the hallways, rooms, or stairs have straight edges or right angles. The architect must have used calculus to design this place.
Finally, Wilbert opens a door into an oval room. There’s a bulbous glass window forming part of the wall, with a view of east Neia. Only forty feet above, the agriplane stretches like a ceiling with no end, meeting the earth at the horizon, as if glued together. Plasticleer skylights stud the underside of the agriplane every fifty feet or so, allowing a scant amount of natural evening light through. Irregular rooftops far below vary in shades of putty, but closer to the downtown area, the roofs are more brightly colored.
“Pink to white,” Wilbert orders, and the room begins to glow in a rosy tint in the farthest corners, then brightens slowly. There’s a low bed and a bean-shaped sofa with a lump of something very familiar sitting on it. Dyl’s purse. I grab it and give it an embrace. I can still smell the faint odor of her freesia download. I suddenly miss her so badly that I forget Wilbert’s presence. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him back out the door.
“Oh! Thanks, Wilbert.”
“S’nothing. Say, if you ever get bored in the middle of the night, come hang out,” he offers. “I could use the company. It gets kind of lone—I mean, boring, you know.”
Even offered by a two-brained boy, this invitation is so blessedly normal that I clutch at it with desperation.
“I’d really like that. Okay. Sure.” I smile. Wow. Feels like a hundred years since I last did that. Before he goes, I call after him. “Hey, Wilbert.” I point to my ear. “Do you have any idea why my holo doesn’t work here?”
“Oh, that. It’s our building. They installed a huge energy receiver for the agriplane a few years ago and it always interferes with the holos. You can access your stored data okay, but that’s it. If you need to talk to any of us, just use the wall-coms. If you need outside info, you’ve got this.” He points to a blank wall in my room. “Access main.” A six-foot screen on the wall lights up green, showing a normal entry frame for Visionworks, the holophone carrier in Neia. “Add voice command.” He nods at me. “Say your name.”
“Um, Zelia Benten.”
A disembodied voice answers me. “Welcome, Zelia. Voice command accepted.”
“You’re all set.” Wilbert smiles. “It’s pretty limited—only public channels. No communication allowed, given our status.” He gives me a friendly wave and shuts the door behind him.
I’m still hugging Dyl’s purse, tracing the pink and black lines of the fabric and bio-leather. I hug it to my chest. Is she safe, like me? Learning about her new home? Freaking out? I wish I knew, even though I fear the truth.
A tickling buzz comes from my right earlobe. My holo is calling me. Strange, since it’s not supposed to work here. I touch my stud, and the holo pops up, with the Carus-induced blurry storm of pixels.
Zzzzzz is all I hear.
“Useless,” I mutter. I push a cloud of my dark frizzy hair out of the way to reach my earlobe.
“Zzzzelia.”
My hand freezes. I listen through two whole minutes of static, wondering if I’m imagining things. But then the crackling clears for a moment.
“Are you there?” It’s a guy’s voice, I’m sure. It’s quickly replaced by more static. I run to the window, hoping to get better reception. My head presses against the cold glass, trying to get away from the tower, which is ridiculous, since I’m in it.
“It’szzzzzQ.”
“Q? What did you say? Is that your name?” I wait a whole minute before the static clears again enough for me to piece together the next few phrases.
“Don’t tell anyone about me. Trust no one. Your sister isn’t safe, and neither are you.”
My heart starts drumming fast.
“I don’t understand! What? Why?”
“Dyliazzzzzzzz.”
The holo finally overrides the bad channel and turns to a barely visible news station. Blurred images of the local Neian news whirr by.
“No! Resume transmission.” Nothing. The unwanted images stay stubbornly in place. It changes to national news. A scratchy voice discusses abductions in East York, floodwaters lowering with the new water converters. “Resume prior call!” Still no change. I can’t get the other transmission back. But it doesn’t matter, because I know what the voice said.
I crumple to the floor, head in my hands. All the shreds of normalcy I felt with Wilbert have dissolved.
What am I going to do?
CHAPTER 8
I ROCK BACK AND FORTH ON THE FLOOR, hugging my knees, as the stranger’s voice echoes in my head.
Trust no one.
But why? Who was he?
The name Q is meaningless. It’s a letter, an answerless question. Yet one thing he said feels too true, too real. I’m not safe, and neither is Dyl. I haven’t felt safe since Dad died, and Carus i
s a shaky sanctuary, even with its needle-stabbing security system and plasma fences. Maybe they’re not truly afraid of invasion. Maybe it’s the inhabitants that need to be kept from the world. And here I am, locked in with them. No one here is trying hard to get Dyl back. No one cares as much as I do.
Her bag lies limp on the floor next to me, as if it’s died in her absence. The dirty orange hue from the fading sunlight retreats from the darkness already blotting out most of Neia. The artificial lights below are a sickly bluish white, and in a few hours they’ll wink out with the curfew.
She’s out there, somewhere. Maybe in Neia, maybe farther away. I can feel the enormity of land and space around me outside of my bubble room. “Out there” is limitless, out of my control.
Normally, when I had a problem I couldn’t solve, I had my lab director. Or Dad. Or my holo. But I have nothing now. I sit there in silence, waiting for the answer to plunk itself onto my dirty lap.
“No one’s coming to help,” I say to nobody. And nobody answers.
Finally, I take a few cleansing breaths, and sit a little straighter against the bean-shaped sofa.
“Access main,” I say. The screen glows blue to a portal offering news, weather, and entertainment stations. “Search Q,” I request. A million terms starting with Q come up. Useless. “Search Dylia Benten.” I’m rewarded with a blank search screen. Even her last fencing team site doesn’t show up. “Benten” alone shows a list of things wholly unrelated to my family. I try different combinations: my dad’s name, my name, New Horizons. “Search Dylia and c-u-e. Dylia and q-u-e-u-e. Dylia and k-e-w.”
Nothing, nothing, and nothing.
My eyes well up again. I grab Dyl’s purse and then pull out the book and her holo stud. I trace the embossed lettering on the cover. Twentieth-Century Poetry.
When Dyl was little, I used to read her Silverstein and Stevenson poems before I’d put her to bed. We’d snuggle under the covers, late at night when Dad still hadn’t come home. She’d watch my holo with me as I read and pick out funny pictures to accompany them.
“Smart girls read poetry,” I told her. “You’re going to be smart, right?”
