by Kristen Pham
At first I think that it’s malfunctioned, and the car will return to our house, like it’s programmed to do if anything goes wrong. But then I notice that it’s turning in the wrong direction, toward the city center instead of our house.
I try the handle of the door, and it’s locked. The windows won’t roll down, either. I reach into my pocket to call for help, and my phone is as blank as the nav screen. Now I’m scared. I pound on the windows and scream as loud as I can. Then I remember the manual lever.
I clamber to the front of the car to reach for the handle of the manual drive lever. I yank it with all my might, but it doesn’t budge. I’m stuck, locked in this car until it takes me wherever it’s been programmed to or my parents call the police.
I take a deep breath and hope that the car has just gone haywire. Because the alternative is that it’s been hacked, and I’ve been kidnapped.
My car pulls up to a run-down building with about twenty floors in the crappiest part of downtown Seattle. Nothing good happens inside buildings where the windows are covered with black paint. I curl my shaking hands into fists. I’m going down fighting.
I grab the heaviest thing out of my backpack, my giant metal thermos. I force myself to take deep breaths to combat my rising hysteria and stretch my legs so that I’m limber and ready to run as soon as the door opens.
My car slows as it approaches the back of the building, and an old-style garage door opens. I swallow convulsively when my car pulls into the building, which is so dimly lit that I can’t make out anything, including how many people are inside. The garage door crashes closed behind me.
It’s dark, but a ring of red lights appears around the perimeter of my car. Why would a building that looks so old on the outside be equipped with a car elevator? I try the handle of my door again, hoping that I’ll be able to get out now, but it’s still locked. There’s a soft click, and then the floor moves, pushing me swiftly to the top of the building.
I’m blinded by sunshine as my car pulls out of the elevator and onto the roof of the building. The lock releases on my car door. I yank it open and come out swinging my thermos as hard as I can. I connect with someone’s head, and whoever it is grunts, knocked down to the ground. I run back to the car elevator, but it’s sealed shut. I bang on it as hard as I can.
“I take it you missed our message, Joan,” a man’s voice says wryly.
I whip my head around and see a well-groomed, middle-aged man with Asian features. His body is thick and muscled, like he could take down a charging elephant without breaking a sweat, but his demeanor is self-contained. He holds his hands up to show that they’re empty and stops moving toward me.
“I’m leaving,” I bark, hoping that my voice isn’t shaking as hard as my knees are.
“All this secrecy isn’t meant to frighten you. We had to be sure that our meeting was off Strand’s grid, but you were supposed to have received a paper note in your locker today alerting you to this meeting.”
“You wanted to keep our meeting a secret from Strand Corporation? So you’re what . . . Throwback rebels?” I ask as my mind scans through the possibilities.
I don’t recognize his clone type, so there’s a chance this is some kind of trick by Strand to get me in trouble. Adrenaline is still pumping through my body, but I’m a little comforted by the fact that he’s keeping his distance.
The person I hit with my thermos shuffles to his feet and glares at me. This guy is tall and wiry, about my age. I’d definitely lose in a fight against these two, and my fear spikes again.
“She’s not as bright as you thought she’d be, Crew,” he says to the middle-aged man.
“Fear is a natural response when your car is hijacked by two strange men,” Crew counters, and then turns to me. “We are, as you say, Throwback rebels. Though we consider ourselves civil rights leaders.”
It’s a lot to take in. For the first time, I look around. The roof is almost empty except for a door that leads back into the building. It requires a retinal scan and a fingerprint to open. It’s also windy up here, and my hair snaps behind me when I face the men.
“You have my word that neither Nic nor I intend to hurt you,” Crew says, nodding to the scowling boy beside him.
Either Crew is who he says, in which case I want to hear why he dragged me all the way out here, or he’s lying, in which case I should play along to tease out his motives. I step closer.
Nic is gently probing his forehead, which already has a huge lump on it. He sees me watching him and gives me the middle finger. I grin back at him, which makes his frown deepen.
“We need to keep this conversation short and get you back on the road before your absence is noticed,” Crew says, with a quick glance at the watch on his wrist. It’s an old style watch, the kind that ticks.
“How do you know my schedule that well?” I ask.
“Car logs, of course,” Nic says, and then snorts. “Really, Crew? We must be able to do better than her. She seems a little slow, and she’s not pretty enough to succeed in the program, anyway.”
His comment pisses me off. “Is this good-cop, bad-cop thing an act, or is Nic really this big of a dick?”
“The latter. I apologize. I wouldn’t have brought him along, but he’s better at hacking your car’s software than I am,” Crew says.
“What do you want?”
Crew closes the distance between us, stopping about two feet away. I can see his shrewd, dark eyes clearly, but his facial expression is unreadable. “I brought you here to issue a formal invitation to the Throwback rebellion. If you accept, you won’t be sent to just any acting program. You will be brought to the Seattle Secondary Theater program, the top acting program in the country for Genetic Replicants.”
“What for? So I can be a rich and famous doll who entertains my Evolved masters, like I’ve always dreamed of since I was a little girl?”
“So that you can train to be a leading mind in the rebellion,” Crew says, ignoring my sarcasm. “Throwbacks have been fighting for equal rights for decades, but we’ve made no progress. We need Throwback leadership that is willing to embrace the danger inherent in overturning an unjust system. Most clones were chosen as housekeepers, construction workers, janitors, and such because they were individuals content with their lot in life, naturally subservient to authority.”
“Now you sound like the Evolved, saying that all Throwbacks are alike,” I snap.
“Spoken like a spoiled little girl raised to believe she’s a left-leaning Evolved,” Nic says.
His eyes meet mine, and I catch a sheen of gold in them. Any shred of respect I had for him vanishes. He’s high on Amp, but I’m the dumb, spoiled princess?
“Clearly you’ve gone too long without your fix. Go pass out in a pool of your own vomit while the grown-ups talk,” I bark at him.
Nic punches the door next to him, and it makes a loud bang.
“You deal with her,” he growls to Crew, and turns to the door for a retinal scan and to provide his thumbprint.
When it opens, I’m tempted to run in with him, since there are no other exits on the roof. But that will mean spending more time with Nic, who I like even less than Crew. I hesitate, and the door closes.
Crew watches me as if he can read my mind. “You wouldn’t get far in that building if you came in uninvited.”
I shrug, hoping I appear calmer than I am.
Crew continues. “The reality, Joan, is that we are all products of our biology. We are individuals, but we do retain some qualities of the original person we are cloned from. Your average Mac lacks the ability to strategize with enough originality to win against a well-funded, ruthless company like Strand that is backed by an ignorant public.”
“But you do?”
“Yes. With some of the greatest specimens from history, I believe we can create a plan that will bring about real change. If you join us, your class will include some of the sharpest minds the world has ever known,” Crew says, his eyes alight.
“This school of yours, Seattle Secondary, is just a front?”
“It is real, which is why my rebellion has gone on undetected for so many years. You will learn acting, music, and stagecraft. But in my class, you will study political landscapes, war strategy, and martial arts.”
“There have been famous people cloned from history for decades, and the Throwback rebellion has stagnated,” I argue.
“There has never been a Throwback think tank like this one, with the resources to execute the plans developed there,” Crew promises. “Yes, Strand has cloned Einsteins to be scientists or Picassos to create beautiful artwork. But they were carefully watched and isolated from other clones with brilliant minds like theirs. But eighteen years ago, the rebellion was presented with the opportunity to influence the embryo selection for several years crop of acting students. We chose the best that Strand’s DNA archives had to offer, including yours.”
“If that’s true, won’t Strand be watching us, too?”
“They already are,” Crew says.
I’m back to thinking that Crew is another crazy Throwback with a dream. There’s a manic glint in his eyes, and now he’s spouting off conspiracy theories. Even if he’s right, fighting a losing rebellion against Strand and the government is not the life I had in mind. With Addie’s gift, I can follow my original plan to be a doctor and really make a difference.
“You said I’m free to go, and I’m ready to leave,” I say, standing up and walking back to my car. “I’ll think about your offer.”
I try to sound calm, but my heart’s about to beat out of my chest. Now I’ll find out if he meant what he said about me being allowed to leave. To my relief, the car door opens when I step closer. I duck inside, but Crew stops me from slamming it shut.
“Tell me, Joan, how long have you had your headaches?” Crew asks.
I swallow. To know that about me, he must have been watching me even more closely than I guessed. My nav screen flickers on. How fast can I get out of here?
He brushes a spot at the base of my skull, just above my hairline, and then pulls back. “I had headaches, too. Almost everyone in my acting program endures them to some degree. Check for a scar at the base of your neck where your chip was inserted. It does a lot of things, one of which is to give you headaches to disorient you and keep you from being too ambitious, from aiming too high. We can deactivate it.”
I slam the door closed before I fully process Crew’s words. I descend to the ground level, and my car pulls into the normal traffic grid where everything is safe and controlled. My breathing slows down enough that I can think.
The first thing I do is grab the electronic compact with zoom my mom leaves in the console. I look through the mirror above my headrest as the compact zooms in on a white line at the base of my skull. It’s almost invisible underneath my dark hair, but it’s there.
Sucking in a breath, I wonder what else that chip can do besides send monstrous headaches. Can it track my whereabouts? Will Strand know if I flee to Paris to live a real life?
The car pulls up to my house. Addie waits on the front stoop, which is unusual for her. She usually leaves early on Tuesdays to meet up with her bridge club. Her face relaxes when I exit the car.
“When you missed coming home at your usual time, I worried. I considered going to your school to find you,” Addie says.
“Why?” It’s hardly the first time I’ve been home a little late, and Addie’s never been worried before.
“Everything has changed for you now,” Addie says, leading me inside. “You are used to living as Evolved, protected. What if you talked back to an Evolved officer? Or if a petty Evolved student at your school targeted you for bullying and you decided to fight back? Or you came home after Throwback curfew? You could be put in jail.”
I can’t blame Addie for thinking I might have done any of the things she suggested because I probably would.
“I’m careful,” I say.
Addie sighs, and the lines around her eyes are more pronounced than I’ve ever seen them. “And you’re smart, I know. But keep your head down for the next few months. Once you’re away from here, free, you can be your wonderful self again.”
Keeping my head down is something I need to work on, so I nod and give Addie a hug. She squeezes me and then gives me a brisk pat before leaving for bridge club.
I don’t stop her to tell her about this afternoon’s adventure. Why worry her about my meeting with Crew? I’m still planning on Paris this fall, right? Right.
Chapter 6
The next two months pass more slowly than the last four years of high school. Mom enters my applications to various theater programs that I’m eligible for, including the Seattle Secondary Theater program Crew mentioned.
It’s a necessary step because Strand checks to make sure all graduating Throwbacks are enrolled in a job training program at the beginning of the summer. Medical school in Paris won’t begin until the fall. I’ll have a few months to dip my toe in the water of Throwback life before I leave for good.
Ava and Fletch are busy planning for college in the fall, and we have little in common now that my future has changed. Part of me would like to confide in Ava about moving to Paris, but it’s too risky. The only person other than Addie that I fully trust is myself.
Instead I spend my afternoons in the Seattle Public Library, applying to medical programs in Europe with my fake Evolved ID. Everything goes smoothly, but I need figure out how to get my high school to send over my grades without mentioning my Status.
I’m turning over the possibilities in my mind as I leave the library two days before my final grades are due. It’s getting dark, so I hurry to the bus stop so that I won’t miss dinner. I’m only a couple of blocks away when someone shoves me, hard, and I fall.
“Take off your backpack, or I’ll rip it off,” says a man who towers above me, radiating a stench of piss that makes me want to gag. Underneath the filth I recognize a man of the Mac clone type, and from the gold in his eyes, I can tell that he’s high.
“Back off,” I say, and I attempt to get up and run.
But he moves fast for an addict, and he yanks my backpack off so hard that my arm pops out of its socket. The sharp pain takes my breath away.
A couple on the other side of the street ignore my cry for help and scurry away as my attacker backhands me across the face. I spit blood as he takes off down the block with my bag.
“Go after him! He took my stuff!” I shout to a man who turned the corner. He’s on his phone. I see him notice the lavaliere on my wrist before deliberately looking away, continuing to text as if I don’t exist.
I take a deep breath, remembering my first aid training. I sit on the ground and put my arms around my knees. Then I slowly pull backward until my arm pops back into its socket.
My shoulder is sore, but the sharp pain is gone. Did I really just get mugged?
My phone is still in my back pocket, thank God, so I look up the location of the nearest police station. It’s a few blocks away, and by the time I run over there, my breathing has returned to normal.
I open the tall glass doors and make my way across the marble floor to the front desk. I’m less than a yard away when a tall, blond officer yanks my arm—the uninjured one, thankfully—and forces me to face him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks with a scowl.
“I’m here to report a crime, Officer Boer,” I say with a glance at his nametag.
“Replicant Claims is in another building. I could write you a ticket for setting foot in here,” he growls.
I understood the concept that there are separate facilities for Throwbacks and Evolved, but the reality that even Evolved police won’t help me is a shock.
“My attacker will get away!” I say. “You have to catch him before he hurts anyone else.”
“Get out of here,” he says, his voice low and rough. “If we let all you Knockoff rats in here, you’d shut down the system.”
�
��What are you saying?” I say, making a monumental effort not to yell.
“Tell me this. Was your attacker a Throwback?”
I’m stunned by his question, and when I don’t immediately answer, he snorts. “Of course he was. Which is why we can’t possibly process every clone-on-clone crime. There’s too many of you, behaving like the vermin you are.”
I’m even more shaken than I was after being mugged. He shoves me out the door, and everyone else in the station stares at me like I’m a smashed bug on a windshield.
I’m determined to catch the dick who mugged me, so I search for the Replicant Claims building, and find that it isn’t far. It’s located in a far shabbier building than the one I left.
Inside, the station is old and filthy, with paint peeling off the walls and grime embedded in the cracks on the floor. There are dozens and dozens of people milling around the lobby, most of them recognizable clone types. Are they all here to report crimes? I’ll be dead by the time they get to me. The injustice chokes me.
A woman clutches her hands to her chest, her eyes empty. When I pass by, her knees wobble, and I grab her arm so she doesn’t topple over.
“You’re shaking,” I say, leading her to a bench so she can sit. “Can I help?”
Her eyes meet mine and fill with tears. “Someone hacked into my welfare account and drained all of my meal credits for the rest of the month. My job only covers rent. How are my son and I going to eat? I promised myself that my child would never go hungry!”
Her breathing comes quicker, like she’s about to hyperventilate.
I put both hands on her shoulders. “Breathe deep and slow.”
I keep her eyes locked on mine, and her breathing calms, and color returns to her pale cheeks.
“I don’t know why I came here,” she whispers. “There is nothing that can be done.”
“Maybe I can—”
“You have done enough. Thank you,” the woman says.
She straightens her spine and turns away from me. Slowly she maneuvers through the crowd to the exit. I see her phone sticking out of her back pocket. I pull out my own phone and log in to my bank account. Then I tap twice on her phone to transfer a portion of my savings from odd jobs to her. I hope it’s enough.
