by Carol Riggs
A clunk comes from the doctor’s room, sending fresh alarm through me. “I need to know how to get the ID chip.”
“My extra coat is brown with a black furred hood, kept in the corner closet behind me. I’ll put a syringe in the pocket, encased so scanners can’t read the chip. Do you know how to use a syringe?”
“Yes.” Thanks to one Catalyst Club experiment Blair and I did.
Irene gives a pinched smile. “Good luck. Before I start your drip, let me go ask the doctor your question.” She says the last part louder.
The hard, flat surface of her reader bumps into my thigh. I look down at the screen as she walks away. My hands slick with sweat, I select the order for my current brainmapping and hit Copy Brainmap File. A confirmation flashes. Links for two groups of Spare bodies appear, male and female. Tap. I choose female. The link expands into a list.
Females: A1 female = age 43. A2 female = age 31. A3 female = age 36…
Where the haze are the younger Spares?
I hear Irene ask the doctor my supposed question, the words garbled.
Hurry.
My fingers tremble. I scan the list for younger bodies. Twenty-nine years old. Twenty-five. Double haze. I’m not going to make it. I need a body, no matter how old it is or what it looks like—I don’t have time to click the links for more info. In my peripheral vision, I see the doctor enter the room with Irene and walk toward me. I select, fast.
G9 female = age 25. Tap.
CONFIRM? Tap.
PRE-AUTHORIZE? Tap.
END SETUP? Tap.
The gaunt figure of Dr. Death steps up. “The answer to your question is yes, Miss Dey,” he says. “You’ll remember everything until your backup a week ago, because we have no original brainmap file for you. That file got destroyed in the bombing. This goes against every privacy measure we’ve set up, so you must be extremely discreet about personal and household details you’ve learned about the Kowalczyks. We’ll know it was you if there’s a breach.”
“I’ll be careful.” I scan his face, trying to decipher his aloof expression. Does he know Leo ordered my backup file deleted? Is he working with him to try to murder me? I swing my quivering legs up and recline as Irene deftly collects the reader from the bed.
“The system is set for Transfer and ready for authorization, Doctor,” Irene says, with a single finger flick to her reader. I hold my breath as the doctor takes the device.
He pokes at the screen and adds his handprint. “Good. Let’s proceed before it gets any later than it already is.”
I’m on the verge of thankful weeping. I’m pretty sure he just unknowingly authorized a Transfer into my new Spare instead of the first one. He must not be in on Leo’s murder plans, or he would’ve paid more attention. Dr. Death sets the reader aside and adheres sensors to my arms, abdomen, and ribs. I clench my teeth to keep my chin and jaw from shaking.
“Breathe deeply and relax,” Irene says, stroking my arm. “I’ve started your drip. Count backward from one hundred. When you wake up, you’ll be in your new body.”
A zillion questions plow through my mind. I breathe as best as I can and stare up at the ceiling, powerless to move, fighting a desire to leap up and race down the halls. There are too many ways this plan could go wrong.
I swallow, hard. Ninety minutes ago, Leo Behr arranged for my deletion.
If this counter-plan doesn’t work, he’ll get his wish.
I will cease to exist.
My body grows weighty, lethargic. Thoughts slow and bumble around in my brain. I fold in on myself, compressing and folding again, until I feel as dense as a Black Hole. Then I dwindle into nothing, tight and dark inside a nameless chasm. The core part of my Self slips away without so much as a trembling whisper of a sound.
Chapter 31
Coldness hits me. Machinery hums and sucks and drones, while the smell of grease fills my head. I open stiff eyelids and see a shadowy world of walls and bodies.
The Spares room. I’ve made it.
I’m alive.
I blink in the semi-darkness. A hard plastic cup wobbles over my nose and mouth, its seal broken. I shake my head. The cup tumbles from my face and clatters to a stop beside my shoulder. I take in a grateful breath. Luckily, there’s no gel surrounding my head. I seem to be in a lower drawer that has opened into the aisle.
My body tingles as nerve endings swarm into life.
I wiggle my new fingers and toes, then shift my arms and legs. When I awoke last time from suspended animation, it took twenty minutes and a hot shower before I felt normal. No chance to do that now. I need to collect my ID chip and get out of this building, fast.
With a grunt, I pull myself onto my side. The skin of my hand and arm is darker than normal, apparent even in the dimness of the room. Whoa—I’ve inserted my brainmap into a non-Caucasian body. And lost seven years of my life at the same time.
Can I be any more different?
“Focus,” I tell myself. Nothing matters except getting out of here. I swing my legs over the edge of the capsule and leave a puddle of oily gel behind. The air stinks of musty antiseptic, but the residue on my skin has evaporated. I pluck off sensors. When I try to stand, the tug of an IV in my arm halts me. Since its flow has stopped, I pull it out and press my thumb against some oozing blood. As I stagger to my feet, a whoosh of an opening door echoes through the room. I freeze in place.
“This is Institute security,” a female calls. “The system reported motion and a heat anomaly in this room. Come toward the door with your hands up, and I won’t use my stun gun on you.”
Oh, no. Adrenaline jolts through me. I hobble down the aisle and crouch by a wall of capsules. Thankfully, even though this body is stiff, it moves faster and with more energy than Jodine’s ever did.
“Who’s there?” Boots rap along distant aisles. “How’d you get in here? Show yourself.”
I stay hidden. As far as I know, there’s only one door, and I awakened somewhere near the middle of the room. Even in this ridiculous maze of bodies, it’ll be difficult to sneak past this woman and out the exit.
“Lights on,” the guard commands the room.
Nothing happens. I nearly faint with relief, and the Enforcer curses.
I skid around a couple of corners and sidle next to a wall. More footsteps. They rap down an aisle and halt.
When the footsteps resume, I dart out and flee down a long stretch. The Enforcer speeds up and closes in. I flatten myself against the end of a row. I don’t know whether I should go left or right as footsteps approach. I squeeze my eyes closed and cover my mouth with the shoulder of my gown to quiet my breath.
The guard stops one aisle away. The beam from her glow stick casts a faint yet heart-stopping sphere of light nearby. Her stun gun clicks on. Her boots tap a step or two.
Long seconds pass, and she swears again. Clicks and shuffling penetrate the air, followed by a beep.
“I need backup,” she says. “Someone’s here in the Spares room, and one of the bodies is missing. Get over here and secure the door. And have someone see if there’s an override for the special lighting.”
Oh, no. I’ll never be able to evade two of them, especially if the lights come on. I’ll have to make a run for it.
The guard moves away from me, heading down an adjacent aisle.
Creeping fast, I go the other way. I feel like I’m in a night-vision paintball game, but the stakes are way higher than a few bruises and a virtual splat of blood.
I inch forward and peer down another aisle.
All clear.
I leap out and run as fast as I can, forcing my sluggish muscles to move. The guard shouts for me to halt. I hear the electric charge of her gun sizzle somewhere behind me. I yelp as I round the last corner.
“Open!” I yell at the door, and dive through before it retracts all the way. I stagger into the Reducer storage room, regain my footing, and keep going. At the other end, I order the outer door open from thirty feet away, and almost leave a t
oe behind as it closes behind me.
The Transfer room is vacant, shadowy and dark except for low security lights. I dart toward the closet. Someone bursts into the room—likely the second guard.
“Lights on,” he shouts as I roll behind a storage cart. The room flares into brightness. I hold my breath while boots pound across the floor. He accesses the suspended animation entrance, and the door whisks open and closed. The room goes quiet.
“Lights off,” I say. The room goes dark again. I grab Irene’s long coat, shrug into it, and flip the hood up. I shove my feet into shoes and snatch blue pants from a shelf. I tear across the room.
Panting, I fly through the door into brighter halls. Behind me, the guards burst back into the Transfer room. As I race, I scan for an exit. Shouts echo at my heels. I don’t dare look over my shoulder to see how close they are.
I careen down one hall and then another, and finally see an exit. I bounce off a wall without slowing, my shoulder hitting hard as I make my turn.
“Open!”
The door slides to one side. A loud deluge of rain and wind hits me. Staying far from the building’s lights and exterior cameras, I use benches and bushes for cover, eyeing an Enforcer patrolling the building, walking away from me. His light bobs through the downpour. He doesn’t seem to have gotten an intruder alert. Good. That means the grounds haven’t gone into lockdown yet.
I wriggle into the blue pants behind a bench. My escape route has to be through the entrance gates, since the outer fence is electric. Can I pretend to be a nurse and simply stroll out? For that to work, the gate Enforcers will have to be only checking IDs for incoming people, not outgoing. Risky. And my only choice.
Leaping onto the sidewalk, I shove my hands into my coat pockets. I stride toward the gates with my head down against the rain. Under the furry edge of my hood, I see the Enforcers look up.
“Sloppy wet tonight, isn’t it?” I call out. “I’m finally done, pulled a super late shift. Hate to see you four out in this.”
The tallest Enforcer chuckles. “Yeah, rotten luck. Last night it wasn’t as bad.”
“No kidding.” I give a bubbly laugh that sounds fake to my ears.
“We got three hours to go, ma’am,” says another Enforcer. “You’re the lucky one, going home.”
“Don’t I know it,” I say, trying to keep the words from wobbling. “Stay awake!”
They murmur good-natured responses. Then I’m past them and hurrying down the sidewalk into the unknown depths of the city. My heart pounds in my ears. A sharp ache in my lungs makes my breathing shallow. Safe for the moment, but not totally safe.
I hunt for an MT shelter. I need to reach the airport and get away from Seattle. The Institute and Enforcers will expect me to go home to Mom and Dad, which means I’ll have to fly to another region and stay there for a while. If I have enough credits in my newly generated account, that is.
At the bottom of one of my coat pockets, my fingers bump a hard cylindrical shape. Good—it’s the syringe. Irene is a lifesaver.
By the time I locate an MT shelter, the rain has soaked my pants. That’s okay. It makes them look darker. The display time reads 0252, already early morning. According to the readout, I have to board the next MT, ride five minutes south, and transfer to an airport-bound MT. I need enough time to do that before I’m traced.
I duck my hooded head as the train pulls up. Trying to act normal, I board. At some point the MT camera feed will be scrutinized, ideally not soon. I don’t have an ID chip for the sensors to scan for the fare, but chips get blocked by metals and other things all the time. A missing fare alert won’t automatically cue them it’s me.
I get off at the second shelter, wait a few shivering minutes, and board the Express to the airport. The ride is tense, unreal.
“Now arriving at Pac-West Public Airport, Seattle,” an e-voice intones.
Keeping my hood up, I merge with a group of adults carrying suitcases. I slip into the airport terminal past a frizzy-haired Enforcer who speaks into his comm-device.
“I got the image,” he’s saying. “Can’t make out the face with the hood up. Female, you say? I’m looking at people getting off that MT right now.”
What should I do? I try to curb my panic. If Enforcers are already searching for me here, I won’t have a chance to buy other clothes to disguise myself. I can slip into a restroom, like the one thirty feet away, but I can’t hide there for long.
The people providing me cover veer straight for a female Enforcer. I swerve and break off from them. I need another cover. Quick.
I scan other travelers and take a step toward an elderly couple with a bored teen. I’m not sure which way they’re going. There’s also that nice-looking heavy guy wearing a poncho—
Wait.
The nice-looking heavy guy wearing a poncho?
Chapter 32
I can’t believe my eyes. It’s Vonn. Of course! I told him about the red-eye flight, and he must’ve flown up to Seattle to meet me, even though I told him to stay in Los Angeles. He has no idea how serious this is. I can’t put him in further danger.
He walks over to an information kiosk, and I force myself not to look up at the security camera pointed in his direction. Careful. We can’t be seen interacting, even if I’m not caught talking with him right this minute, because our connection will be spotted later once the Enforcers review the security feeds. My throat goes dry. I step up to the brochure screen next to him, where he’s scanning a city map display.
“Superguy. It’s me, Geekling—but don’t look over,” I whisper-hiss, keeping my head down and my face covered by the furred hood. “Pretend you don’t know who I am. Enforcers are looking for me, and I need to get out of this airport.”
I sense him steel himself beside me. Trying not to look. Trying to process what I’ve just said. He sucks in a breath. “If you want to catch that oh-three-fifteen flight, you missed it.”
“I don’t think I can fly out now. Enforcers will be checking the boarding areas.” I talk fast while my fingers make fidgety circles on the brochure screen. “I’m going to find some clothes and change in a restroom, even if I have to swipe someone’s luggage to do it. I need you to leave the airport and follow the MT tracks left four blocks. Turn right, go down four more blocks. Wherever that ends up, I’ll meet you there…just stop if you run into a dead end.”
Vonn starts to protest, but then clamps his mouth shut and walks off.
I’m on my own again. I need alternate clothing, yet everyone I see is clutching his or her luggage, and it’d be a gamble as to what’s inside the bags. Swiping one could also risk attracting an Enforcer’s attention. If I buy clothes—whether from a vendorbot or a full-service store—my ID will be revealed and matched to my face when the vidfeeds are eventually reviewed.
What am I going to do?
A flare like pure instinct or adrenaline shoots through me. I slip into the nearest clothing store. In one second, I note where the security cameras are located. Blind spots assessed. In the next second, I’m angling down an aisle. Both the self-pay machine and the solo human cashier are serving other customers, so I snap the tag off a lightweight jacket and tuck it beneath Irene’s coat. Next comes a pair of pants, also wedged under my arm. Then a baseball cap.
It seems my new body knows how to do this really well.
Footwear next. This store doesn’t have sneakers, only flimsy slip-on flats. That’ll have to do. I add a pair to my stash and head out. No one shouts behind me. I find a restroom, dash inside, and lock myself into a stall. It’s a good thing security cameras aren’t allowed in restrooms.
With cold and shaky fingers, I hang my stolen items on the door hook and peel off my wet coat. I remove the syringe from the pocket and ready it. Wincing against the prick of the needle, I inject the almost-invisible chip into the back of my hand.
There. I’m officially a new person, specific ID unknown.
I strip off my soaked shoes and pants, and roll them inside the
coat along with the syringe. Shoes rap across the restroom floor as women come and go. The cold seeps up from the tiles and into the soles of my bare feet while I remove my hospital-like gown. I’m zipping up my jacket when a trio of young women comes in, chattering about the latest vids and fur-lined jackets. I put on the stolen shoes, and wait to leave my stall until they’re in stalls of their own.
I emerge. No one else is at the sink area. On one wall, there’s an incinerator installed, which is perfect. Time to dump my wad of incriminating stuff and get out of here. With frenzied fingers, I feed my entire coat roll and the gown into its metal throat. The machine hums, accepts my offering with zero fanfare, and turns it all into cinders.
Morgan Dey is officially dead, in more ways than one.
My knees buckle at the thought, but I grip the sink and hold on. The mirrors above the sinks catch my reflection—a shockingly unfamiliar one. A round face with a nubby nose. Medium-brown skin. Big eyes with irises so deep brown they blend with the pupils. The face is more plain and unremarkable than pretty.
That’s totally okay. I love this body. I want it, no matter what it looks like. If all goes well, I’ll get to keep it for the rest of my life.
I stuff my hair into the cap, adjust the cap low on my head, and exit. My slip-on shoes are too long, which makes me stumble a little. My pulse pounds like a trapped animal’s. I need to be extra careful. The vidfeeds could record part of my face if I tilt my head wrong.
I thread through the crowd toward the main terminal doors, passing two Enforcers studying the throng.
Casual. Act casual, I tell myself.
One of them marches toward me on my left, his eyes sharp. From under the bill of my cap, I see him look straight at me.
Swaying my hips, keeping my head tilted down, I wiggle my fingers in a coy greeting. A flicker of amusement touches his face before he passes me. In the next handful of seconds, I walk past another cluster of Enforcers, and I’m through the doors.
Outside, the rainstorm drenches me as I walk left into the darkness on a street paralleling the MT tracks. My teeth clatter against themselves after less than two blocks. My fingers and ankles and toes turn icy. I’m glad for the dark and the pouring rain, though. It’ll make the public security cameras mounted on building corners less effective to identify me, maybe even worthless.
