Strange New World

by Rachel Vincent

  The Administrator dismisses my mother’s bluff with a roll of her eyes. “Dahlia 16’s genetic test said she isn’t a clone. But her identicals were. I know what Wexler did for you, Lorna. I know he put your baby into production to fulfill my order. And I know he sent you the wrong embryo.”

  “Then you must also know that you authorized mass replication of DNA you didn’t own. That’s a felony.”

  I glance at my mother in surprise. Threatening the Administrator seems like a very risky move. But my mom isn’t done yet.

  “If we bring charges, the court will shut down Lakeview for the duration of the investigation, at a minimum. Years of lost productivity and profit, Amelia. Along with the bad press a trial would bring.”

  The Administrator aims a pointed glance at me. “Do you really want the world to know the Whitmore family made unauthorized use of Lakeview’s facilities and clone labor as well as unauthorized use of proprietary technology? That you stole biological tissue belonging to Lakeview? That your daughter is nothing but a cheap replica of a hydroponic gardener?” She pauses dramatically, and her cold gaze hardens. “Clones can’t hold citizenship, Lorna.”

  My face burns, and I blink away the tears.

  Though I can feel anger radiating from her in silent waves, my mother looks unmoved by the Administrator’s threats. “I suggest we come to an agreement that will leave us both unscathed by this whole mess.”

  The Administrator seems only mildly interested, but I’m not buying it. She’d never let anyone shut down Lakeview. “What do you propose?”

  “You destroy all records and evidence that a certain class of trade laborers ever existed. And that any Whitmore DNA was ever in your possession. In return, we will destroy the evidence in our possession.”

  “What evidence would that be? Other than the sole Whitmore heir?” The Administrator’s focus finds me again, and this time it feels like a threat. I hold her gaze, to make sure she knows she’s not dealing with an obedient, submissive trade laborer.

  I may look like Dahlia and her identicals, but I am a Whitmore through and through.

  “Dahlia 16,” my mother says, as if it should have been obvious. “Amelia, we have your missing gardener.”

  The Administrator blinks, and for just a second, a crack in her poised facade hints at the chaos and anxiety that must be wreaking havoc behind the scenes at Lakeview.

  “You…? We’re also missing a cadet. Do you have him?”

  “Trigger 17. We do. How else would we know about any of this?”

  The Administrator clears her throat. “I assumed Waverly saw or overheard something at Seren’s party last night. My security team followed the Chapmans’ car all the way to the gate to question them, but the car didn’t stop.” She turns an accusing gaze on me.

  “I didn’t go to the party. Your gardener stumbled into it and faked her way through, pretending to be me. Then she left in Hennessy’s chauffeured car, like one of the guests.”

  The Administrator’s jaw tightens—the only sign of how frustrated she must actually be. “Send them back.”

  “No,” my mother says, and I glance at her in surprise again. “I will fulfill my part of the agreement, as soon as I’m able. But for now, we need Dahlia.”

  “Why?”

  “Because her genome wasn’t altered to fulfill your order, her body produces hormones that Waverly’s does not. A series of biological donations might let us develop a custom hormone therapy for my daughter.”

  I glance at my mother in surprise.

  The Administrator’s brows rise. “Interesting. That might help with fertility, if that’s your goal, but hormones won’t fix—”

  “But once we have what we need…,” my mother interrupts, her entire frame suddenly tense. “You have my word that we will destroy all evidence of her existence.”

  “Mom!” The blood drains from my face, leaving me cold.

  She shoots me a brief, hard look, and my mouth snaps shut. But I can’t focus on another word said as she and the Administrator negotiate, coming to terms on an agreement that will affect the rest of my life.

  Maybe it’s callous of me to feel nothing about the deaths of all those other girls who looked just like me, but I never met any of them. By the time I knew they’d existed, they were already gone. But Dahlia 16 is real, and she’s here, and I’ve seen her. I’ve spoken to her. She’s not a clone. She’s not a servant.

  She may not be a Whitmore—I may not even like her—but she’s a person. I can’t believe my mother would just…

  She’s lying to the Administrator. She has to be.

  “Agreed.” The Administrator gives my mother a reluctant nod, and I force myself to focus on the discussion going on without me. “Send the cadet back, and you may have limited, temporary custody of Dahlia 16, for biomedical purposes. On the condition that her existence never comes to light.”

  My mother returns her nod. “I’ll send the cadet back to Lakeview with an armed escort this afternoon.”

  The Administrator leans closer to the screen in her white leather chair. “I understand that your daughter leads somewhat of a public life. If Dahlia 16 is ever seen, on camera or off—”

  “She won’t be,” my mother snaps. “We stand to lose just as much as you do if that were to happen.”

  “You stand to lose much more than I do, Lorna. If your little science project threatens Lakeview in any way, I will have you and your husband arrested. Then I will reclaim custody of my stolen biological tissue.” The Administrator’s gaze slides toward me again and she gives me a slow, cold smile.

  The screen fogs over as she ends the call.

  My mother exhales. Her entire body seems to deflate.

  “What does that mean?” My hands are clenched so tightly my fingers have gone white. “What stolen biological tissue?”

  “You need to go get ready.” She stands and smooths already perfect hair back toward her bun with one trembling hand. “We’ll discuss this after the Chapmans and the camera crew have gone.”

  “No! What biological tissue?” My mother turns away from me, and I grab her arm. “Mom! You’re not really going to kill Dahlia, are you?”

  She rips her arm from my grip and her gaze burns into me. “I don’t have any choice, and neither do you. If the world finds out you’re a clone, you’ll lose your citizenship. Do you understand what that means?”

  I blink at her, trying to bring the looming question mark into focus.

  “Clones can’t own property. They can’t go to school. They can’t marry. They can’t inherit multibillion-dollar tech conglomerates. If anyone ever finds out about Dahlia, your life will be over. Literally, Waverly.”

  Chills race up my arms and down my spine. “What does that mean?”

  My mother exhales slowly. “You are the stolen biological tissue, honey. Wexler used the DNA I sent him, but he implanted it into an egg stripped of its original genetic material. That’s how Lakeview creates embryos. And that egg—that original biological tissue—came from a cache that belongs to Amelia Locke. Which means she might have a legal right to custody of you.”

  My head spins with the implications. “But I’m eighteen. No one has custody of me.”

  My mother shakes her head slowly. “The Administrator’s custody claims wouldn’t be parental. She literally owns the base material that created you, just like she does with all the clones at Lakeview. She could ask the court to return possession of that material to her as if it were a stolen chair or tablet.”

  The reality of what she’s saying crashes into me like a car at full speed. “If she owns me, she could have me euthanized, like she did with all the others.”

  My mother presses her lips into a grim line. “And if we don’t destroy her gardener, that’s exactly what she’ll do. It’s Dahlia or you, sweetheart. And I choose you.”

/>   “Dahlia.” Someone shakes my shoulder, and I open my eyes to find Trigger 17 staring down at me. The room is bright, and it takes me a moment to place the blue walls behind him. Then I sit up, and yesterday comes back to me in a sudden rush of grief and adrenaline.

  My identicals are dead. Lakeview was a lie. Lorna Whitmore locked me in this room.

  “We have to go back to Lakeview. We have to tell them.” I throw back the blankets and slide onto the floor, where my bare feet sink into thick carpet. And that’s when I truly register Trigger’s presence. “You got the door open!” I throw my arms around him.

  “Good morning to you too.” He smiles and kisses me. “This is how I’d like to start every day, only without the need to flee for our lives.”

  I kiss him again, lingering in the contact longer than I probably should. He’s the only thing I have left, and being unable to get to him had felt like losing him too.

  Then his greeting sinks in. “Morning?” I whisper, even though we’re alone. He’s not supposed to be in here, and I’m afraid that speaking loud enough for the room to hear us will get us caught.

  He nods at the exterior wall, and I turn to see that a thin line of sunlight now outlines the drapes covering the windows. “It took longer than I expected.”

  “How late is it?” It doesn’t feel like morning without the beeping of the dorm-wide wake-up alarm and three identicals jockeying for space at the sink in our bathroom. “Do you think people are up yet?”

  “I know they are.” He sweeps one hand in the direction of the e-glass, and it fogs over, then lights up. “Live feed. Exterior cameras. Show me the driveway.”

  The screen blurs again, then clears to show a grid of four camera feeds, each offering a different view of the front of the house, including the circular drive. Where six black vehicles are now parked in a line.

  “They pulled up half an hour ago,” Trigger says. “Something’s going on.”

  “Are they from Lakeview?” I squint at the screen, my heart hammering against my chest, but I don’t see a city seal on any of the cars. “Did Lorna turn us in?”

  “I don’t think so. There weren’t any soldiers. Just women with tablets and satchels, and men carrying equipment.”

  “Workers? Are they clones?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Great. We’re not going to be able to sneak out with the house full of people.” But we can’t just sit here and wait for Lorna to call the Administrator.

  “I don’t know….” Trigger scrolls through more camera feeds, then spreads his fingers to enlarge one showing a group of people milling around a spread of food in a large dining room. Equipment I don’t recognize sits in the corners of the room, and bright lights have been aimed at a chair at the end of the table, where two women are laying out tiny brushes and an assortment of small containers. “They’re all gathered in one place, downstairs. We could use whatever they’re doing as a distraction.”

  “Where are Waverly and her parents? And Hennessy? Do they know you’ve hacked the security system?”

  “The parents are in their suite, and I think if they knew, I wouldn’t have access to these cameras.” He scrolls through more feeds, then enlarges two of them. The first shows Waverly’s mother and a man who could only be her father chatting as he knots a tie around his neck. She appears to be drawing lines around her own eyes, in front of a mirror. “According to what I’ve gleaned from playing around in their system, the father’s name is Dane Whitmore.”

  “That still feels so strange to think of. That everyone here has parents, except the clones. It seems so inefficient—making people one at a time.”

  “Everything they do is wasteful and inefficient.”

  “It certainly looks that way.” Yet it’s hard for me to think of Lakeview’s efficiency with much nostalgia or respect, knowing that we were taught to maximize effort and streamline processes not for our own benefit, but in order to better serve people like Waverly and her parents.

  Trigger gestures to the other feed, where my clone is staring straight at the screen as if it were a mirror, turning to admire her own clothing. “Waverly’s in her room, and Hennessy left before dawn. But I get the impression that he’s coming back.”

  “So if we go now, we can sneak past all the new people. And if they see us, they’ll just assume I’m Waverly and you’re my security.” I shrug. “It worked last night, and it should work again today, if we can avoid the Whitmores.”

  Trigger lifts my arm to show me my own bar code. “Last night, this wasn’t visible.”

  “Easy enough.” I cross into the bathroom to grab the cuff from the counter where I left it, but…“It’s gone. So is Margo’s dress. Lorna must have sent someone for them.” It gives me chills to think that someone walked right by me while I was asleep, and I had no idea.

  “Are there any other clothes in here? Something with long sleeves?” Trigger heads for the dresser and starts pulling drawers open.

  “No, but look.” I point at the feed from Waverly’s room, where at least a dozen articles of clothing have been tossed across her bed, rejected in favor of the outfit she’s wearing. As I watch, she heads into her bathroom, and the door slides shut behind her. “Trigger!” I turn to him, an idea pulsing through me. “Can you lock her in there? Just long enough for us to grab a long-sleeved shirt?”

  He’s already gesturing at the screen, minimizing the camera feeds in favor of menus I don’t recognize. “I’ll have to revoke her access to the entire system to keep her from calling for help. But yes.” He gives the screen one last, victorious poke. “Done.”

  “That was fast.”

  Trigger pulls me close. “I’m really good at what I do,” he whispers against my neck, right below my ear, and with my hands pressed against his chest, I can feel every line of muscle standing out beneath his thin shirt. He lets me go with obvious reluctance, but the ghost of his body heat lingers against my palms. “Show me a floor plan of this house,” he says to the e-glass.

  A blue three-dimensional map of the house appears on-screen, cluttered with symbols I don’t understand.

  “Plot a route from here to the nearest exit, with Waverly Whitmore’s bedroom as a waypoint.”

  On the map, a line made of red dashes trails out of the room we’re evidently standing in and winds its way down the hall and around the corner to another room, which must be Waverly’s. A second line of green dashes leads away from her room, down a curving flight of stairs, then out the front door.

  “Alternate route,” Trigger says. “Avoid the main entry.”

  A new green path appears, this time leading to an exit at the back of the house. Trigger and I study the route, and I commit the turns to memory.

  “Are you ready?” He takes my hand, and I squeeze his.

  “As I’m ever going to be.”

  This time when we approach the door, it opens. Trigger lets go of my hand as we step into the hallway, and I mentally tick off every turn we make and each room we pass. My pulse races with every step; I’m privately certain that we’ll be caught and re-arrested.

  There’s nothing to distinguish Waverly’s door from any of the others, and when it doesn’t open the moment we step close to it, I wonder if we’ve been caught. If Lorna has already reprogrammed her security system to keep us out. But then Trigger waves one hand at the door, and it opens.

  Of course. They don’t auto-open from the outside, to keep every door in the house from sliding open any time someone walks down the hall.

  I spare a second to make sure Waverly isn’t standing in the middle of her bedroom; then I tug Trigger inside. The door closes behind us, and I exhale. We are one step closer to escape.

  “Hey!” Waverly shouts from the bathroom, and I jump, startled. “Is someone out there? There’s some kind of glitch and I’m stuck in here!”

  Trigge
r gives me a wink and a smile, and I swallow a twinge of guilt at having locked up my own clone. She may be my identical, but she’s not my sister. She’s made that clear.

  Her room is beautifully furnished and I would love to study all the pictures on the walls, but there’s no time, so I head straight for the huge bed. I paw through the clothes discarded on the comforter and grab the first long-sleeved blouse I find. It’s blue, with thick black leather wrist cuffs and a thin black ribbon lacing up the center.

  Trigger turns around to give me privacy, and I pull off the borrowed tank top, then tug the silky blue blouse over my head.

  The e-glass in Waverly’s room is set to function as a mirror, and I gasp when I look at myself in it. The ribbon threaded down the center of the blouse leaves a half-inch strip of my flesh exposed, from neck to navel, and I can’t make the material close. The ribbons are sewn in place.

  Trigger appears next to me in the mirror, holding a pair of black leggings. “Here. You’ll give yourself away in pajama bottoms.” Instead of taking the pants, I cross my arms over my chest, trying to close the gap in the shirt, but he only gives me a heated smile. “I know it’s just a costume, but you look amazing.”

  “Really?” I whisper.

  His smile grows as I let go of my blouse to accept the leggings.

  “Hey!” Waverly shouts again from the bathroom. “Who’s out there?”

  Trigger turns around again, and I step out of the pajama pants, then shimmy into leggings that are just as snug as the PJs were. Which is when I realize my feet are bare.

  In the mirror, I spy a pile of discarded shoes at the end of Waverly’s bed. One pair is the same blue as the blouse, with spiky, shiny black heels. I slip my feet into them. I’m ready to go, and running in these heels will be impossible, but Waverly doesn’t seem like the kind of girl to walk around barefoot—or in the wrong shoes.

  Waverly is still shouting as we leave the room, and I sigh again with relief when the door slides closed behind us and I realize we can’t hear her from the hallway.