MILA 2.0

by Debra Driza

  I turned my back to change, confident I’d hear anyone if they tried to approach. The jacket was long, hanging halfway to my knees, so I went ahead and stripped off my pants while she removed hers, a pair of ripped-up black jeans.

  They didn’t smell any better than the jacket; worse, in fact. Gritting my teeth, I pulled them on. Androids couldn’t afford to be squeamish. The pants hung low on my hips, even after I buttoned them, but they’d stay up. Good enough.

  I pulled the hood over my head, tucking all my hair inside. Hopefully, from a distance, I could even pass for a boy.

  “Here you go,” I said, handing the woman the money.

  She gave me a wide grin that wrinkled her face, revealing two missing teeth, but didn’t utter a word. She just grabbed the money and tucked it in up under her new shirt in a flash, like she was afraid I might change my mind.

  I glanced over my shoulder, caught a flash of the rising sun glimmering off the Potomac. I did want to change my mind, but that had nothing to do with the money. As I turned to walk away, I stopped by the guy who’d tried to hit me up for money, who was still eyeing me with a wary look. “Here,” I said, shoving a ten into his hand. “Next time, don’t grab.”

  Then I took off at a brisk pace, hands in my pockets, head down. Heading into the city.

  A block away, I found a red bike locked with a chain outside a building. Uttering a mental apology to the owner, I twisted the lock until it snapped and hopped on. I needed to make better time. Plus I figured a lone person on a bike was the last thing they’d be looking for.

  I pedaled down the streets, keeping my head down but my eyes open for the black Suburbans, or any cars whose passengers looked a little too interested in checking out other drivers. A few blocks later, I stopped at a convenience store.

  When my hand touched the door, I remembered the last convenience store I’d been to, not very long ago, outside the motel. Back then, Mom had still been alive.

  I felt a sharp stab to the gut, followed by a strange, almost welcome numbness. Then I darted inside to buy a prepaid phone card and a frozen coffee drink—again, for camouflage effect.

  Once I paid, I headed to the pay phone just outside. In the distance, the Lincoln Memorial rose up against the dawn-streaked sky, its wide white columns and huge rectangular top looking stately and powerful. Abraham Lincoln, abolisher of slavery. Abraham Lincoln, assassinated for his beliefs.

  I searched the streets for any signs of pursuers.

  No threat detected.

  Turning back to the phone, I lifted the receiver, punched in the numbers. And then gripped the phone like it was the only thing keeping me standing.

  Three rings later, he answered in a voice still groggy from sleep. “Hello?”

  “Hunter?”

  “Mila? Is that you?”

  I closed my eyes and clenched the phone even tighter. It was unbelievable, just how much I’d missed the sound of his deep voice. No matter how high the quality, memories couldn’t compare to the real thing.

  “It’s me. Listen, I don’t have much time but . . . I need your help.” I squeezed my lips together. If he said no, that was it. I’d be completely on my own.

  That fear barely manifested before his quick reply banished it. “Of course I’ll help—what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  Mom’s limp, broken body filled my head. I bit my lip and stared back at the memorial, at the tiny birds flocking around it, like today was any other day. Nothing was okay, not for me—but my reality wasn’t theirs.

  Maybe it was like Mom said. No one could experience life through someone else’s eyes. Not me, and not them. Maybe we weren’t that different, after all.

  “Mila?”

  “No,” I said softly. “I’m not okay.”

  A pause. “Where are you?”

  Hunter was the only person I had left who I could trust, besides Lucas—but contacting Lucas would be impossible. And I didn’t want to have to do this alone. Plus a steady fear had been gaining strength inside me, ever since I’d let the Potomac take Mom. If I lost all contact with people I knew, people I cared about, would I lose the things about myself that made me more human and less machine?

  I needed Hunter. But he deserved a choice.

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  I pictured Mom again, the crimson spreading across her shirt, and felt my eyes well up. For Mom, those people had proved deadly.

  “Yes, I want to know. Let me help you.”

  “Thank you. Mom’s . . . gone. I have some things to tell you, but I can’t over the phone, and I can’t go back to Clearwater. But I need help.”

  He didn’t even hesitate. “Don’t worry, Mila. I’ll come to you.”

  “Come to me? But your parents—”

  “Are so busy, they could care less. I’ve traveled by myself tons of times. Besides, I’m eighteen. I don’t need their consent. Just tell me where.”

  Oh, god. Between the sweet sound of his voice and his eagerness to help, he was going to turn me into a big weepy mess. And I didn’t want to cry. Not again.

  I twisted the metal cord between my hands, completely torn. It was selfish of me to ask, I knew that. What if just meeting me put him in danger? And yet . . . Mom wouldn’t want me to be alone.

  “Mila—tell me. Please.”

  I should have said no. I should have, but the relief coursing through me was too strong to resist. With no Mom and no Lucas, I had nobody but Hunter to depend on for help. Plus I couldn’t deny that I wanted to see that lopsided smile again. Even if it was only for a short time.

  In my head, one of my implanted memories replayed, a fabricated vacation that had always seemed so idyllic. “Okay. Meet me in Virginia Beach in two days. I’ll call you when I get there, to give you more detailed directions.”

  Virginia Beach. A wave of longing washed over me. I might never, ever get to visit that beach with Mom for real, but maybe digging my toes into the sand, listening to the crashing waves, and people watching on the boardwalk like in my phony memory would help me feel a little closer to her, somehow.

  A siren wailed off in the distance. “Gotta go. And Hunter? Thank you.” I hung up the phone before I heard his reply and headed for my bike.

  Yes, Virginia Beach might be the perfect place. All I had to do was make sure I got there in one piece.

  Forty

  The young waitress looked out of place. With her long chestnut hair, pulled back into a ponytail, wide-set blue eyes, and perfectly symmetrical features, she could have been a model. I wondered what made her choose a job as a waitress in this grimy café, serving sunburned parents and screaming children and cleaning up dirty dishes.

  I wondered if she had any idea how I envied her. She had the freedom to do whatever she wanted, to be whoever she wanted to be. I planned on having that kind of freedom. Soon.

  A man’s shout rang out from somewhere down the boardwalk, and I stiffened in the wooden chair. I glanced out the window, and faster than ever, my android functions took over.

  Target: Located.

  A zoomed-in image of a short, potbellied man wearing a wide-brimmed hat appeared before me. I watched as he shouted again at two kids, who were down on the beach and running for the waves, fully clothed.

  No threat detected.

  If I’d learned one thing in all of this, it was that fighting the reality of my capabilities did me no good. It was better to just accept them. They made things easier.

  Sometimes I wondered if being less human would make things easier.

  My hand clasped around the pendant that dangled from my neck. I’d never understood why a phony birthstone had meant so much to her, but she’d wanted me to have it, and I was glad. It was the only physical reminder of her I had, and while my android logic fought against getting attached to an inanimate object, the gemstone offered me some small measure of comfort all the same.

  My eyes stung, so I stared outside at where the sun burned bright, refusing to allow the tears to fall. The be
achfront café’s open windows allowed the scent of salt and fish to waft inside. Seagulls screeched, the ocean rumbled, and everywhere, the sound of chattering tourists.

  I toyed with the cold french fries on my plate, sipped at the iced tea the waitress had already refilled twice. Much longer, and I’d probably need to order something new to justify the booth. This was the first time I’d even attempted to eat anything since I’d escaped Holland—it seemed ridiculous to waste money on food that I didn’t really need. Plus my programmed appetite obviously responded to my emotional state, because it was nonexistent. And now that I hadn’t eaten in so long, the whole process felt . . . unnecessary.

  A hint of anxiety niggled at me, as it had when I’d first ordered and found I didn’t really want anything. Like maybe when I stopped doing human things, the humanity in me would just fade away.

  A few tables over, my waitress interacted with another group of customers. I watched the way she laughed down at a squirming child. She’d been nothing but friendly, smiling every time and asking me to flag her down if I needed more. She must have a wonderful life away from work to be so cheerful, I’d decided.

  I looked out the window again, not expecting to see anyone I knew. He’d probably decided not to show. I couldn’t blame him. Who in their right mind would fly from Minnesota to Virginia Beach to meet a girl they’d only known for a few brief days?

  With or without him, I’d evade Holland, Three, and the Vita Obscura, if they really existed, and I’d track down this Richard Grady, whoever he was. He’d tell me what he knew, and after that, I’d try to get on with my life.

  I really, really hoped that life involved Hunter. But my chances weren’t looking good.

  I reached down to brush a few lingering grains of sand from my flip-flopped foot. When I sat back up, I saw him. He walked down the boardwalk, his hair as long and wavy as ever, hands stuffed into the pockets of his green hoodie, his calves bared by a pair of cargo shorts. Just outside the door, he hesitated and looked over his shoulder, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought he was going to turn around and walk away. My breathing quickened. I wanted to shout out to him, but instead I sat there silently, clinging to my iced tea glass like it was my only salvation.

  He had to make this final choice all on his own. And it wasn’t like I could blame him for having doubts. He had to be wondering what the heck was going on. What kind of trouble I’d managed to get myself into.

  And then he was looking into the café, and his hand was pulling open the door.

  I’d meant to stay reserved, so that I didn’t freak him out as soon as he walked inside by assaulting him with one hundred and twenty pounds of emotionally flawed android enthusiasm. But somehow I’d propelled myself to my feet and pushed away from the table, and by the time he entered the cafe I was running.

  I paused just before I reached him, suddenly realizing what I was doing and how everyone was staring, and good grief, that he was probably expecting a handshake and here I was, about to plow him to the ground. But then he opened his arms, and I flung myself into them.

  Well, carefully flung, of course. Tackling my dream boy with the force of three juiced-up linebackers, as Kaylee used to say, probably wasn’t the best way to make an impression.

  “You made it,” I whispered into his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him. Suddenly, my earlier anxiety about fading humanity seemed sillier than ever.

  He squeezed me tight. “You still owe me another date, remember?”

  I choked back a laugh as we stood there in the middle of the café, me hugging him like my life depended on it. And maybe it did.

  Now that he was here, I felt like the reasons behind this impromptu meeting could wait.

  Maybe forever.

  Holy cow—I wrote a book! But I didn’t do it alone. Since writing can feel like such an incredibly solitary pursuit sometimes, it’s amazing how much help and support (and sanity checks!) are required to make a book possible. Luckily, I’ve surrounded myself with some of the most helpful and supportive people on the entire planet.

  Thanks to Kathleen Peacock, Lindsey Culli, Rachael Allen, Kara Taylor, Stephanie Kuehn, Sarah Harian, Vahini Nadoo, Elyse Regan, and all of my fellow YAWNers for assuring me at various points along the way that I wasn’t writing complete gibberish.

  To the amazing writers at LB, WN, and the Hopefuls—thank you for listening and keeping me (relatively) sane (and trust me—I know what a difficult task that is!). Ditto to the Apocalypsies, Luckies, and Classes—much love to you all.

  Special thanks to my amazing and talented writer friend Kathleen Peacock, who is equal parts Cheerleader of Awesomeness and Purveyor of YouTube Distraction. Joss lovers, UNITE!

  To Absolute Write, for showing me how to become a serious writer, and especially to my Purgies for offering endless support—Sweet Cartwheeling J, y’all!

  Huge thanks to the SoCal writing gang—you know who you are, and you make me proud to be part of the local writing scene. (Also—More. Lunches. Just saying.)

  A special shout out to the YA community—writers and bloggers and everyone else. I know we have our ups and downs, but overall, I think we’re part of something pretty amazing.

  To the wonderful team at HarperCollins and Katherine Tegen Books, who made this all possible: my fabulous editor, Claudia Gabel—there’d be no Mila without you—Melissa Miller, Katherine Tegen, and Katie Bignell in Editorial, Amy Ryan and Erin Fitzsimmons in Art, and Sarah Hoy and Benjamin Delacour, who aren’t technically Harper but who helped make the cover (OMG, you guys—THE COVER!!!!!), Renée Cafiero in Copyediting, Lauren Flower and Megan Sugrue in Marketing, and Casey McIntyre in Publicity. Also, thanks to all the wonderful Harper folks I met at ALA and Comic Con, for making me feel so welcome, and everyone else at Harper who helped with Mila in some way, big or small. I can’t even begin to tell you how much your enthusiasm for this book means to me.

  To my friend/cheerleader/ledge-talker-offer/agent extraordinaire, Taylor Martindale, for handling all my random and angst with utter grace. Also, to SDLA and Full Circle Literary Agency for their support.

  Thanks to Kat Post, for the no-stress author photo and for watching my little darlings when I needed to snatch a few extra writing hours.

  To my nonwriting friends, for both your support and your infinite patience in putting up with all of my book babble over this past year. Plus, emergency revisions babysitting, WOOT!

  Special thanks to Tom Wyatt, for making the trek to Clearwater. I owe you a Blizzard.

  An enormous thank-you to my mom for getting me addicted to reading and YA in the first place. To all of my family in Colorado for their unlimited support and kid-watching assistance (although I am still waiting on that Ivory Tower), with a special thanks to the Jerhound, for flying and/or driving to CA at a moment’s notice. Thanks to our Chicago family for your enthusiasm, and to Dawn for letting your house double as my writing cave.

  (On a similar note—thanks so much to the San Marcos Starbucks, Boudin and Panera, for allowing me to write without turning into a hermit.)

  To Shani and the rest of the hounds—see how I snuck that Ridgeback in there?

  To Finley and Connor, for (sometimes) understanding that while Mommy would love to play MineCraft and ponies 24/7, she needs writing time, too. Also, for filling the house with hugs and laughter (and the occasional scream, but we’ll forget about those for now).

  To Scott—thank you for being a kid wrangler extraordinaire, for giving me the gentle boot out the door when I have deadlines to meet, for never complaining and always believing. Your support makes all the difference in the world and, just so you know—tidy houses are overrated.

  And finally, thanks to you, lovely reader, for picking up my book—because stories aren’t much fun if you can’t share them.

  About the Author

  DEBRA DRIZA is a member of the teen lit blogging group the Bookanistas and a former practicing physical therapist who discovered tormenting her characters was infi
nitely more enjoyable. These days you can find her at home in California, wrangling one husband, two kids, and an assortment of Rhodesian ridgebacks. MILA 2.0 is her first novel. You can visit her online at www.debradriza.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

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  Credits

  Cover art by © 2013 by BENJAMIN DELACOUR

  Cover design by SARAH HOY and ERIN FITZSIMMONS

  Copyright

  Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  Mila 2.0

  Copyright © 2013 by HarperCollins Publishers

  This ebook belongs to vzyl at 64 70 67 72 6f 75 70 forum. I hereby acknowledge that I have shared this book outside the forum without permission from the original poster if I earn profit or rewards for providing access to this ebook. I also accept responsibility for advertising and providing a hyperlink to this forum.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Driza, Debra.

  Mila 2.0 / Debra Driza. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: A teenage girl named Mila must escape from the CIA and rogue operatives when she discovers that she is an experiment in artificial intelligence and that her scientist mother kidnapped her from a secret laboratory when she was found to have human emotions.

  ISBN 978-0-06-209036-2 (trade bdg.)

  EPUB Edition January 2013 ISBN 9780062090386

  [1. Science fiction. 2. Identity—Fiction. 3. Androids—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Mila two point zero.

  PZ7.D793Mi 2013

  2012005248

  [Fic]—dc23

  CIP

  AC