by A. L. Davroe
Confused by his words and what he’s doing to my body, I stare at him for a long time. He sounds like Dad, spouting nonsense like this all the time. But, unlike Dad, Zane has a wild and dangerous charisma on his side. His touch and tone stir my insides, make me want to get up and run, make me want to do what he asks me to do.
“Are you all ready to go?”
Zane and I both jump at my father’s voice. He’s standing at the mouth of the alcove. With a blush, I hop to my feet. “Yes,” I blurt, somehow feeling guilty. “Yes, I’m ready.”
Dad nods toward Zane. “I’ll speak with you soon, Zane.”
Zane beams, his smolder now buried under congenial innocence. “Of course.”
I move to follow after my father, but Zane catches my hand. I turn back as his fingers whisper along my skin and he presses the broken pieces of the holo-mask into my hand. “Remember what I said,” he purrs, his eyes meeting mine. They’re flat plum-colored now, no sparkle, but they’re so deep. Deep and mysterious and promising.
There is no way I could ever forget this moment, this feeling of impossibility within. How could I ever hope to live up to being this man’s wife? How could I even think of being with him? Or Quentin Cyr? Or even Bastian, for that matter? There is nothing here for this man.
“Think about it.”
Swallowing, I nod and, reluctantly pulling away, trot after my father.
As we walk along the hall, he looks down, his face contorted with concern. “You’re being awfully quiet.”
I shrug.
“What did you think of Zane?”
I shrug again.
“Did something happen?”
I bite my lip. He wouldn’t understand.
“You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head and stay silent as we take the aerovator down to track level and stand at the station while the android valet scans us. Then we wait for the retrieval code to go through. A few minutes later, our G-Corp issued company pod comes skimming out of the garage.
As Dad approaches the pod, it recognizes his implanted G-Chip and the door springs upward with a pneumatic hiss. The valet helps me get in, his mechanical hands strong and sure in mine, his protocol expertly bundling my massive gown and petticoats in after me.
“Honestly,” my father breathes, attempting to get in beside me, “the clothes you kids find fashionable these days. So illogical. Why did your female ancestors bother fighting for the right to wear pants if you’re just going to wear such restrictive, foolish garments?”
I ignore his comment. I’m in no mood for another one of Dad’s tangents about our cultural regression.
As soon as Dad’s body clears the sensors, the door closes behind him with a click. We sit silent as Dad’s G-Chip responds to his neural impulses and relays destination coordinates to the pod’s navigation program. The engine hums to life and the pod, running on autopilot like every other transport in the city, begins skimming over the hover-track. A few long moments pass in the bright blue-white light of the pod’s interior. It’s obvious that Dad is waiting for me to say something, but I don’t feel like talking.
Eventually, he pulls his flex-bracelet off his wrist, snaps it flat, and tunes into The Broadcast. For a few minutes, I watch with him, reviewing a recap of this evening’s events until I see myself coming down the stairs to the main ballroom, my face hidden behind one that isn’t my own. I turn away and stare at my reflection in the mirrored interior of the pod. My Natural face and body are hideous to look at. No amount of Mods and Alts could hide that I’m not a Custom baby like most of the other Aristocrats.
Disgusted with my Natural human appearance, I punch the button on the side of the door. Immediately, the chameleon nanos in the window screen shift unreflective translucent, showing me Evanescence by night. The central block is a jumble of high-rise towers laced in mirrored screens; colorful, illuminated advertisements; and neon hover-ways that seem to stretch forever into the smog clinging to the dome that stretches from one side of the enclosing wall to the other. It’s as if a confluence of bright white waves crashed over the wall, slammed to the ground just inside, and then crested upward and into each other at the center.
Where our residential block is, you can look out the window screen and see through the dome to the Disfavored on the other side. Those people are Naturals, like myself. Their ugliness shunned and barred away, allowed in only when some benevolent Aristocrat takes pity on them. Like Uncle Simon did with Bastian. Like Quentin did with his Dolls… Like Zane is no doubt doing with me.
I know why Zane is showing any interest in me at all. Because he’s rebellious, and taking a Natural wife would anger the Cyrs. Because he cares about his ratings, and they’ll go up if people see him conducting a charity marriage to a pathetic Natural.
I know why Quentin didn’t pick me. I’m not beautiful enough. Nothing natural is beautiful. Naturals are disgusting and unworthy of the touch of a Cyr.
I punch the button again, closing myself off from the world I live in but don’t belong to. “I know what I want for my birthday.”
Dad doesn’t look away from the flex screen before him. “Oh? I was thinking we could go visit the Imperial Garden.”
“No,” I say quietly, picking at the edge of my own flex-bracelet. “I was thinking of something else. Something I’ve wanted for a long time.”
Dad spares me a nervous sideways glance before turning his kind eyes back on the screen. “Like what?”
I take a deep breath, hold it, and then say, “I want a Mod.”
Dad tenses, his handsome face going rigid. “Please, Ella, we’ve gone over this.”
I continue, insistent. “How about an Alt? They’re cheaper.” Then as an afterthought I say, “Plus, they’re less invasive—just topical cosmetics, completely reversible.”
“That’s not the point.”
“But, Dad—”
“No buts, Ella. You know how I feel about Modifications and Alterations. It’s vile to cut your body apart, to shoot it full of nanites.”
“You don’t seem to have any problem with anyone else getting Modifications.”
He puts the flex screen down on his lap and turns to me entirely. “That’s different.”
“How?” I demand.
“Because they aren’t my little girl.” He reaches out and puts a hand on my arm, as if that could make everything better. “You’re a Natural, Ella. A beautiful, healthy Natural and there is nothing to be ashamed of.”
I feel my fingers ball into fists around the satin of my gown, crushing it. I try not to let my anger taint my voice, but I don’t do a very good job. “You don’t get it, Dad. You’re a Custom baby; you’ve never had to deal with not being perfect. I’m ugly. I don’t fit in. I don’t look like my friends, boys don’t like me.”
“Don’t even tell me boys don’t like you, Ella, when I’ve got one of the most affluent eligible bachelors asking after you.”
I’m fairly certain the only thing Zane Boyd is interested in is status, wealth, and having an exotic wife. And oh, won’t I just be the object of awe at each party—the freak. “People make fun of me.”
“They’re just trying to intimidate you. They’re all insecure in their own skin.”
“Insecure?” I repeat, incredulous. “What could possibly make them feel insecure?”
Dad looks at me for a long, quiet moment. “Look at me, Ella. Look at me, and look at every other father out there.”
“I don’t follow.”
“We all look the same. We’re all perfect. Yes, we might have different colored hair or eyes, but there’s only so much variation on perfection. And that uniformity makes people feel like they aren’t unique. Why do you think we began developing Mods and Alts? Those kids at school are picking on you, not because you’re ugly, but because you stand out without even trying. They hate themselves, and the
y take it out on people they feel threatened by.”
I roll my eyes. “No one is threatened by me. Have you seen Delia? She has Rhinoplasty and Argence. And have you seen her hair? I’ve never seen hair that color. There’s no way she’s jealous.”
Dad pulls his hand away and sighs in frustration. “Your mother would be furious to hear you talk like this.”
I glare at him. He always has to bring her up. Whenever he feels like he can’t win an argument with me, he brings her up, makes me feel guilty for shaming the memory of my mother. No more. “Yeah, well, she isn’t here, Dad. Mom’s dead. She’s been dead for a long time.”
He scowls, making his own Custom face look ugly. “I made a promise to her, Ella. She wanted you to stay a Natural. And damn it, I’m going to fulfill that promise if I have to lock you in your room for the rest of your life.”
For a brief instant, I entertain the idea of hacking into Dad’s credit account, stealing enough credits for a Modification, and altering my own citizen profile to make me old enough to get a Modification without parental consent. But the rebellious thoughts are quickly extinguished and replaced with a sharp headache, compliments of my G-Chip.
I wince in pain.
Every citizen in Evanescence has a G-Chip implanted at birth. The chip is wired into our frontal lobe, allows us to function with other technology, and grants us passage as citizens of Evanescence.
From a young age, we are taught that our chip is our life. Without the chip, we’d be unable to walk into our own housing units; enter and direct our own transportation pods; we would be barred from schools and work places; we couldn’t interact with our flex-bracelets, robots, or habitat control systems. Without the chip, our medical records, our basic data, our credit accounts, our nutritional readouts, our very identities would be lost. We couldn’t be found. We couldn’t be monitored. We’d be no one. We might as well be Disfavored.
I put a hand to my head and wait for the pain to pass, hating that I can’t control my thoughts enough to prevent the parental controls from punishing me when I think about breaking the rules. In return for the G-Chip, we are—to some degree—controlled within the confines of the law. I am underage. I legally can’t get a Mod or Alt if my parent doesn’t provide both the financial and legal support. My father has put these parameters into my chip’s programming and the chip acts accordingly. If I even think of trying to do something rebellious, such as stealing credits or adjusting my age on my profile so that I can get a Mod on my own, the chip punishes me and eradicates these thoughts.
Pain mostly gone, I lower my hand and blink away tears. Sometimes I hate my chip. Sometimes the desire to cut it out of my body flits across my mind, but the chip corrects those impulses, too.
Dad places his hand on mine, this time in a gesture of empathy. He, too, was a child once; he must know what it’s like to have to deal with the chip’s punishments. “Ella,” he says softly, as if speaking loud might be too much for my poor scrambled brain to handle. “Why can’t you just accept who and what you are?”
I turn away from him and rub my pounding temples as tears of anguish begin pouring down my face. “Because I hate what I am,” I squeak. Then, realizing what I’m truly trying to say, I turn back to him. “I hate you for making me be this way—for not Customizing me. I hate you,” I growl.
He flinches as if I’ve slapped him, and his eyes go wide with surprise. “Ella, I—”
Whatever Dad is going to say is cut off as the pod suddenly beeps an alert, and the internal lighting begins flashing red. In the next instant all I hear is a horrible grating and then a loud, jarring bang.
Fire. Heat.
My own scream.
Nothing.
Chapter Six
Post-American Date: 6/15/231
Longitudinal Timestamp: 1:03 a.m.
Location: Dome 5: Evanescence
Pain. Light.
I try to sit up, to turn my head. I can’t move. I see a circle of white light. Someone is standing over me. He’s speaking, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. All I can hear is a high-pitched ringing. I blink, trying to focus through the spots. A metallic face. Droid… A medical cap and gown. Doctor?
Something inside my ear pops and crackles. I wince in pain but open my eyes again when I hear a hollow, muffled voice. “—can’t save it, Doctor.”
I turn my head. Can’t save it? The doctor nods.
The world goes black.
I dream of being at a ball. At this ball everyone looks at me and smiles at me. Delia is there, dancing with Shadow. She looks so very happy. I dance with my father and then Bastian cuts in. I dance with Bastian, then Zane cuts in. I dance with Zane and then, to my utter surprise, Quentin cuts in. We dance for a long time. More than one dance. I’m the first girl he’s ever asked to dance with more than once. He’s smiling and staring down at me, like I matter.
As we spin, I catch my reflection in one of the reflective surfaces and stop mid step. Quentin takes my hand and guides me to the full-length mirror mounted on the wall. I stare at myself. Custom, Modified, and Altered. I wouldn’t know my own face except to know I’m staring at my reflection in a mirror. I grin huge and Quentin leans close, whispers in my ear. “You’re so beautiful.”
Chapter Seven
Post-American Date: 6/17/231
Longitudinal Timestamp: 10:24 a.m.
Location: Dome 5: Evanescence
When I wake, I’m in Dad’s workroom. I know the textured plastic walls, the clinical gray of the industrial rug, the massive panel of his supercomputer at the far end of the room, and the red sheen of the synthetic vinyl hover-chair parked before the desk.
The digital picture of my mother is on the desk like it has always been, her gray eyes peering out from unruly brown curls, her mouth soft, but the angle of her fine arched brows somehow critical. She died when I was young—so young that I don’t even remember her. When I first ran to Dad, crying and frightened that I couldn’t remember my mother’s face, he uploaded this picture from his own G-Chip onto the digital frame. He’d stared at her for a long time, his eyes sad, and then he’d placed her on the top shelf of the desk so that we could both remember her face.
She has sat there ever since, watching, reminding me of my faults. Dad says she was a staunch Naturalist—that she demanded to have a Natural baby. She didn’t believe in Custom babies or Mods or Alts. It’s because of her that I am what I am, that I’m a social reject. Sometimes I hate her even more because I look so much like her and less like my Custom father. It’s not fair. Half of my genes are perfect. Why can’t I look perfect? Why do I have to look like her?
Beside my mother’s picture is a new picture of my father. It was never there before, but I’m glad it is. It’s good to see him—his bright hazel eyes sparkling in the artificial sunlight, his matching brown hair mussed like he’s just run his fingers through it. Handsome as ever a genetically altered person can be, as loving as a truly good person ever will be.
Why did I tell him I hated him? I didn’t mean that. I have to apologize. I need to get up and tell my father that I love him more than anything. I reach up, but my arm feels like a ton of foundation steel. I moan, feeling terrible and numb at the same time.
“She’s awake.” The voice is Meems’s.
I let out a long, relieved breath. Meems. Good old Meems. After my mother died, Dad purchased Meems. She’s a domestic android that has dutifully raised me as her own since she was programmed. She is my first friend, my mother, and my confidant.
Her face appears before me, blurry around the edges. Her silicone chasis flexes as her artificial anatomy relays her emotional protocol.
She was made to be pleasing to look at, tall with short-cropped, bright blond hair and light blue eyes. Dad says she looks like a young Julie Andrews in a modern day version of The Sound of Music. I never bothered to ask what he meant by that. To me, Meems i
s Meems. That’s all that matters.
She reaches out and puts a hand on my forehead, her synthetic skin soft and room temperature against my own. “How do you feel, Ellani?”
“Don’t strain her, Meems.” A stranger steps into view, her Altered and Modified body crowding out my nanny’s. “Ellani? Can you hear me?” She leans in close, her perfume cloying and her face garish and tacky to my sensitive eyes. Her taste in Mods and Alts is directly opposite Quentin’s more refined eye.
Her face looks like the painted, cherubic face of a child’s festival doll. Her hair is a zigzag combination of red and white, her eyes a startling green. These colors were once Natural colors, but years of interbreeding has limited the Natural hair and eye colors to various shades of brown and black, and Natural skin is a basic light brown. Even my own gray eyes are considered exotic by Natural standards.
Unable to find my voice, I nod. But I try to give her an expression that asks, “Who are you?”
She smiles at me, though the gesture doesn’t reach her eyes. “My name is Katrina. I’m going to be taking care of you for a while.” Katrina glances over her shoulder to where a girl about my age is standing. “This is my other ward, Sadie.” Unlike me, Sadie is a Custom baby, tailored to be—even before she was born—perfect. Sadie has hair the color of blood, eyes the color of holo-glass garden grass, and skin that is flawless and pale. She looks like she could be Katrina’s real daughter.
“Call the doctor in,” Katrina says. “She’s awake.”
Ignoring Katrina, Sadie stays and watches, her eyes as big as saucers. It’s as if she can’t take her eyes off me, as if I’m suddenly fascinating in a way that I never was before. “What’s wrong with her?” Her voice is a chorus.
“Quiet,” Katrina snaps.
I struggle to speak. The sounds I make seem dry and weak, foreign and hollow to my own ears. “Where’s Dad?”
Meems and Katrina share an uneasy glance.
