by Carol Riggs
The day before my trip, I cut one of my T-shirts into a headscarf. At my job, I temporarily snitch a tube of dark pink lipstick from a co-worker. Vonn gives me extra hugs and kisses for luck when I go over to his apartment for dinner. I try to ignore the worried shadows under his eyes.
“Don’t get caught, 007.” He hands me a pair of his old white sneakers as I leave.
Before the sun rises on the morning of my day off, I’m up and dressing in layers that I plan to shed along the way. I pull on my hooded sweatshirt and wear Vonn’s bigger sneakers over a pair of plain flats. Under my shirt, I tuck a belly pack containing small disguise items.
I slip downstairs to the nearest MT shelter. My double shoes pinch my feet. During the first part of my journey, I ride with my hood up to cover my hair. A wide metal bracelet overlaps my hand to keep the fare scanners from reading my ID. It’s a risky move, riding without paying, but I don’t want any record that I’m trekking across Los Angeles today.
The envelope with its incriminating message crinkles under my shirt. It’s like a bomb against my ribs. My heart pounds against it, and I lick dry lips. But I can’t back out now—I have to do this. To protect people against getting turned into Spares, to help wipe out this part of the Institute.
When I arrive at a mall, I get off and duck into a restroom to transform myself. I whip off the hooded sweatshirt and my jeans, revealing a shirt and black leggings. Makeup follows: heavy eyeliner and eye shadow. As much as I hate to, I toss my sweatshirt and jeans in the incinerator, along with the makeup. The dark pink lipstick goes on next. Then hoop earrings. I press stick-on cloth bows onto my flats. Pink ones.
My hands tremble as I pull my hair back and cover it completely with the scarf. This trip is giving me bad déjà vu of being in the airport four months ago, trying to escape the Enforcers in Seattle. One sloppy mistake, and they’ll catch me now, or spot me on public vidfeeds later on.
I add a slouch to my walk, exit the mall, and board another MT. Again, I make sure my ID chip is blocked. By the time I transfer one more time and reach the Nations Council building an hour later, my jaw aches from clenching my teeth so hard.
Here it goes. Time to deliver my letter.
The steps leading to the double doors of the entrance stretch out in front of me, long and nerve-wracking. The autodoors whoosh open. I pass through, sweat prickling under my arms. I don’t know if the building has scanners built into the sides of the entryway, but I keep my bracelet low on my wrist just in case.
Once I’m inside the lobby, that’s when I see the security checkpoint.
Oh, no. This is as far as I can go.
My footsteps slow as my mind races. Stern-faced guards flank a trio of high-tech scanners. Not only ID chip sensors, but full-body machines and the works. I won’t be able to hide my identity with a simple wide bracelet now.
A woman with a tight ponytail waves me forward. “Metals go in the plastic tray, shoes on the conveyor belt.”
I shake my head and pull the envelope from under my shirt. “I’m not going inside. Some guy in the coffee shop down the street wanted me to deliver this to Ambassador Bowman. He said it’s urgent.”
The guard goes into instant alert mode, face tense. “What’s in it?”
“An important letter. No bomb or anything laced with anthrax. He bought me an iced caramel latte with whipped cream, so I said sure, I’ll come here and hand this to someone.”
“You should never do things like that,” the woman says with a growl. “Why didn’t he deliver it himself?”
I place the envelope into a tray and shrug. “I dunno. He looked scared, like he didn’t want to be seen coming here. Will you give it to Ambassador Bowman, or make sure he gets it?”
The woman picks up the tray without touching the envelope. “We’ll take care of it. From now on, be less trusting or you’ll end up regretting it.”
I manage to jerk out a nod before I walk away and leave through the autodoors.
At this point, the situation is out of my hands. There’s nothing else I can do. I hope they don’t dump the letter straight into an incinerator.
On the return trip, I take a different route and stop at a high-traffic hover-skating rink. I transform myself back into Ana Ramos, wiping off makeup, shedding my shirt and earrings, and incinerating the shirt and scarf. I comb out my hair and peel off the black leggings. There’s a pair of tan ones underneath, and I un-scrunch my final T-shirt from around my waist and pluck the pink bows from my shoes.
Time to hop an MT and go home.
Chapter 35
Three days later, Vonn’s TV murmurs distant nothings in my ears, its holographic forms moving above the platform in my peripheral vision. I’m not really watching it. His mouth is much more interesting. Warm. Swimmy and dreamy. His kisses are part of his personality, and his personality is mega-mega-octane.
“Ana, look.” He shifts, trying to untangle our arms and sit up.
“No, I don’t want interruptions.” I wrap my arms back around his neck. I’m addicted to him. There’s no such thing as “stop” right now.
“Seriously, you gotta see this.” Vonn grabs the remote from the arm of the couch and cranks the volume.
I sigh, mock-growl, and twist around to view the images in front of us.
My head clears in an instant.
It’s a live broadcast held at The Body Institute in Seattle, Washington. Troops from the Nations Council wearing gray uniforms march through the gates, past saluting Enforcers.
“—pending this property search for evidence of crimes against humanity,” a newsvid reporter is saying in the lower corner of the display. “Apparently a large number of bodies are kept here in a high-security suspended animation room. These bodies, called Spares, are a questionable reserve against accidental death of the Institute’s Loaner clientele. Death-row inmates are presumably stripped of brain activity to provide these bodies. However, according to an anonymous tip, the Spares far outnumber the total of recent death-row inmates. Where have these other bodies come from? The International Nations Council has sent in troops today to search out answers.”
“It worked!” I breathe the words into the room. “Ambassador Bowman got my letter.”
Vonn gives a straight-lipped smile and slides his arm around my waist. “You did it, Geekling. The proof came down to the numbers. Way too many bodies in that Spares room.”
I watch the 3-D figures march across the platform, and it’s as if I’m standing right on the grounds in Seattle. I can almost feel the light rain pattering on my shoulders and head. I’m glad I made this investigation happen, for Vonn’s sake especially. It’s a belated justice, even if it doesn’t make up for Steven’s wrongful death. Or anyone else’s, like that Iowa woman’s brother, or the unlucky guy who got sent to Seattle by the man with the goatee.
The reporter angles her umbrella, her expression growing intense. “I’ve just gotten word that the unaccountably large number of Spares has been verified. Troops have confiscated this portion of the Institute’s operation, and will ship the bodies to a neutral location. Reserve bodies will now only be issued in the case of actual Loaner deaths. No new Spares will be created.”
“It’s about time this happened,” I say. “Great start. We can take the Institute apart, piece by piece.” Further words stick in my throat as Nations Council troops file out from the main doors of the Seattle building, escorting a trim man in a dark suit. Snatches of the reporter’s words reach my ears. Arrest. Director. Responsible for this atrocity. Extensive knowledge and involvement over the past year.
I stare at Leo Behr. His body appears to grow larger as he walks closer to the camera, until he’s a three-dimensional part of the living room, right in front of me. His shrewd gray eyes are hard, drilling straight into mine. It’s almost like he can see me, and he knows it’s my fault he’s wearing restraint-cuffs. His dark eyebrows knot across his forehead. I lean back from the image.
Vonn tightens his arm around my waist and b
reathes with me. There aren’t any words to react to what we’re seeing. My heart pounds, loud and slow. Leo moves away across the platform, growing smaller as he’s ushered toward a waiting security transport. Eerily, the sensation of his glare stays with me, like I’ve been irradiated.
The reporter continues. “The White House has sent official word that it had no knowledge of Mr. Behr’s mismanagement of these bodies.”
I grunt and nudge Vonn. “Sure. Just like the WHA didn’t have anything to do with the maintenance tech’s bombing of the Institute.”
“And sadly,” Vonn says, “I bet it’s still not safe for you to contact your parents or friends.”
“No…I’m sure the government will be keeping an eye on them for the rest of their lives.”
I can only do what I can while living under the radar, and the only thing left for me to do now is to make sure the Institute is shut down. Completely, not just the Spares room. As Granddad said many months ago, this body swapping stuff just isn’t right.
The winding sidewalk leading up to the Pleasant Hills Retirement Home reminds me of a park path, except the grass blades stand unusually still in the breeze. The same for the bushes. That’s because the entire landscaping on the grounds is made of fake turf and shrubs.
Only the best for this country’s senior citizens.
I climb the steps toward the brick buildings. The corner of the WHA signature reader I clutch digs into my ribs. Here at the far edge of the Blue Zone today, I plot a dual mission. One mission is dedicated to the WHA and its petition to close the Institute. The other is something I’ve been wanting to do for myself for months, but never had good camouflage for my actions.
I check in at the entrance. The small wallscreen by the door responds in a snippy, tinny voice: “ID verified and logged. Security cameras are posted at this residence to prevent theft and vandalism.”
I roll my eyes and start canvassing in the west wing. Working my way along the first floor, I try to breathe like I’m cool and composed. I stop at an inner courtyard. A chatty gathering of elderly people plays horseshoes there, and I collect a dozen easy signatures.
“Thank you,” I tell them. “If we don’t protect our rights, they’ll be taken away.”
They nod their gray heads in solemn agreement. Their bodies look wonderful, their wrinkles telling stories of lives lived long and full. I promise them I’ll come back another day to play horseshoes. If all goes well with my second mission today, I’ll sign up to volunteer here on evenings and Saturdays to mingle with people. That’ll provide additional cover for any future visits.
I return to the echoing halls. Odors of floor cleaner and ancient wooden furniture sift into my nose. Security cameras lurk every ten yards, perched high on the wall like evil metal bats. The building directory listed my goal as room 1382. I have three or four rooms left before I get there. I work my way closer, then finally reach my ultimate destination. Tucking my reader under my arm, I twist my fingers together so hard my knuckles crack.
1382: Bob Sanders.
Here it goes. Will he talk to me or throw me out? He hates petitioners.
I knock instead of using the ringer on the keypad, since he prefers quieter interruptions. The door slides to one side. Granddad sits across the room in his old plaid armchair, his bushy hair and beard framing his face like an aging sunflower.
“What is it now?” he says. “It’d better not be another shot. If this place spent as much time with the food as they did pushing pills and shots, it’d improve a hundredfold.”
I can’t help laughing, and the tension in my gut dissolves like sugar in water. Same old Granddad. I’ve missed him something fierce.
“No, Mr. Sanders, I’m not giving out pills or shots. I’m collecting signatures for a WHA petition to shut down The Body Institute. Have you heard of us, or the Institute?”
“I sure have, young lady.” He whaps a gnarled hand onto a thick printed book that rests on his knees. His eyes go watery. “That Institute murdered my granddaughter.”
“Really?” I try to sound detached, but my voice falters.
He waves for me to sit on a folding chair opposite him. “Well, indirectly. That foolish technology of theirs. Had no right messing with brain waves and all that swapping nonsense. They had her convinced it was safe. Then they said she disappeared in Seattle—or her brain clone did, anyway. Some other girl’s dead body was supposed to be her, and they’d already deleted her backup file since she was done being a Reducer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve had bad experiences with the Institute too.”
“So here you are at a government retirement home, trying to get signatures to take down one of their big-shot funded programs.” Granddad chuckles. “That takes guts. I like that. It’s about time the WHA did something besides set things on fire. I wasn’t fond of that guy…what’s his name? Henry or Harvey, or something. It was his fault my granddaughter was murdered—her real self, not just her clone. Good as snuffed her out himself in that burning building.”
His face crumples, his chin quavering. He gathers himself with an effort. “What exactly is this petition about?”
I try to focus on his fuzzy hair rather than his sad eyes and shaky chin. He doesn’t remember Herry’s name or that the incident was a bombing and not a fire…more of his memories are becoming lost forever. But it doesn’t matter. Even if he doesn’t remember everything, he’ll always be Granddad to me. “If we get enough signatures, it’ll convince the Nations Council to stop government funding and close the Institute. A lot of people agree the Reducers program is too dangerous to balance out the good of helping people lose weight.”
“My kind of petition. Hand it over.”
I present my reader to him. He adds his ID signature and handprint to the screen with a zesty flair. My glance falls on the book in his lap. Brown and bulky, with worn edges. It looks vaguely familiar for some reason.
“What’s that you’re reading?” I ask.
A smile wreaths Granddad’s face. “One of my favorite books, The Count of Monte Cristo. These days I’ve forgotten some of the details, so I started it again yesterday. Have you ever read it?”
I snatch at wisps of possible memories in my brain, but they flee, as elusive as clouds on a windy day. We shared lots of books, but not this one. “I don’t think I have. What’s it about?”
“Betrayal, true love, God, justice, revenge, and reconciliation. It’s all in here. Good stuff, though it’s old and the words are more poetic than books nowadays. Don’t live your life without reading it.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to give it a try.” If the book is important to him, I’ll make it important to me.
Hunching forward, Granddad points a knobby finger at me. “There’s something about you that I like, young lady. Can’t quite put my finger on it. What’s your name?”
I desperately want to tell him my real name. But I can’t. Once on a government radar, always on a government radar. Leo was a key figure in the nasty Spares business—but not the only one. Someone had to provide him with all those bodies.
“I’m Ana Ramos.”
“Nice to meet you, Ana. Do you want a sneak preview of this Monte Cristo book? I can start over at the beginning with you. I’ll even let you do the reading, since my eyesight’s not what it used to be.” Granddad scratches his head. “If you like the story, maybe you can come back another time, and we can keep reading.”
A broad smile breaks out across my face, straining my muscles something wicked. It’s a glorious feeling that makes me want to shout, to rattle the security cameras in the hall right off their posts.
I lean back in the folding chair. “I’d love to do that, Mr. Sanders,” I say. “It’ll be a perfect way to get to know you.”
Acknowledgments
First, to my made-of-awesomeness agent, Kelly Sonnack, for her unflagging belief in this novel despite its ugly duckling beginnings, and her perseverance until it finally grew up into something that more rese
mbled a swan. For her knowledge, guidance, and general overall sweetness.
Undying gratitude to Stacy Abrams of Entangled Teen. You chose my book! And you edited it to make it so much stronger than before, knowing just what it needed to round it out. Thanks to everyone at Entangled Teen, from cover design to publicity (answering my incessant questions) to copyediting and more.
Grateful appreciation to Mary Kate Castellani, whose revision notes on spec shaped this novel into a more reader-friendly and vital story. Also to Amanda Rutter, my almost-editor at Strange Chemistry (and her team!), for also choosing my book, and making revision-useful comments.
Endless gratitude and hugs to my critique partners and other long-suffering souls who’ve read part or all of this manuscript—at various stages and often multiple times: Carolyn Lee Adams, Kathe Anchel, Nazarea Andrews, Patricia Bailey, Deanna Carlyle (Gwen Ellery), Rosie Connolly, Trish Fletcher, Chantee Hale, Rachael Harrie, Stina Lindenblatt, Stephanie Sinkhorn, Al Sirois, Emily White, and Debby Zigenis-Lowery. Extra thanks to Stina Lindenblatt, who advised me on exercising and toning details. With MEGA-SPECIAL endless gratitude and hugs to Lynda Young, Aussie critique partner and friend extraordinaire, who wasn’t afraid early on to tell me the novel had major structural problems. You rock, Lyn!
To my online blogging community—you know who you are, and while there are too many to list individually, I appreciate your ongoing encouragement, generosity, and support. Likewise to my friends in the Fearless Fifteeners group, as well as the Oregon and northern-California SCBWI. Hugs to all. You’ve made my journey to publication that much more enjoyable.
Much love to my husband, Dennis, who generated the geeky details of ERT, and got the book kickstarted from my premise. For his unfailing support, as well as making it possible for me to stay home and write, write, write. To the creative writing teachers who encouraged me: the late Jim Rainey of Marshfield Senior High in Coos Bay, Oregon, and Mike Steele of Pacific University in Forest Grove, Oregon.
