Strange New World
Page 14
“Oh. Wow,” I say, nodding. There is so much about Lakeview that I don’t understand. And now I feel guilty, because the tablet isn’t so much a gift as it is a prop. Part of the costume required to play Waverly Whitmore in public.
“Well, in lieu of vegetation”—So. Weird.—“I hope you’ll accept the tablet. It’s just like mine—same settings, apps, pictures, and videos. You can buy, read, and watch whatever you want, and purchases will go to both of our tablets. The only exception is social media. You’re not signed into my message accounts because I don’t need you to be me online.”
I show her how to program her fingerprints so the tablet will respond to her touch instead of mine. “Why do we have different fingerprints if we have identical DNA?” I ask as she finishes with her last pinkie finger.
“Because fingerprints are influenced by environmental factors during fetal development, and you and I definitely did not experience the same environmental factors. I was gestated inside sterile lab equipment, in a controlled environment.”
Does that mean her identicals all have the same fingerprints? If my mother gets her way, I’ll never have a chance to find out.
“Okay,” Dahlia says as a flash of light blinks from the center of her tablet. “I think it’s done.” She picks it up, and a soft green light blinks in one corner, acknowledging her fingerprints. The glass clouds over, then shows the image I have programmed into my own tablet as the background—a shot of Hennessy and me kissing in a field of flowers.
“He really seems to care about you,” she says, staring at the picture with a wistful expression.
“He loves me,” I tell her. “I know that’s not a word you’re used to using about non-sisterly relationships, but that’s what’s between me and Hennessy. I love him. And I should be there with him tonight.”
Dahlia gives me a sympathetic look, and I stand, mentally shaking off gloom. I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself and I’m really not comfortable with her feeling sorry for me. “Okay. One last run-through of the details.”
She slides her new tablet into a pocket hidden in the folds of her blouse.
“You can have one drink. But no red wine—it stains your teeth and lips. Stick to champagne, but wait for Hennessy to hand it to you. It’s this gentlemanly thing he does, and people love it.”
“You can’t get your own drink?”
“Of course I can. But he likes to do it for me. It’s polite, and supercute. Just like when I tie his tie. He can do it. But it’s sweet when I do it for him.”
“Okay.” Dahlia shrugs.
“You can sample three snacks—they’re called hors d’oeuvres—but only one of each, because that’s all I would eat in public, and nothing—”
“With beef in it. I know.” She rolls her eyes. “You don’t eat beef.”
“And you shouldn’t either. It’s not good for you.”
Dahlia’s brows rise. “I’ve never selected my own food.”
“Of course you haven’t.” I’m such an idiot. “Well, you’ll get to tonight. Have fun. Just don’t go overboard, because I seriously don’t eat much in public. There’s too great a risk of getting arugula stuck in my teeth or spilling something on my clothes.”
She nods, and where I saw only fear and dread in her gaze before, there is now a spark of interest. Excitement. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Speak to everyone, but small talk only. The statements you memorized about my platforms. Compliments for the other girls’ clothing. But don’t compliment any guys or look at any of them for too long, or the tabloid feeds will say I’m thinking of cheating on Hennessy. Or that I’m already cheating.” Her look of incomprehension is starting to feel very familiar. “That I’m interested in another guy,” I clarify.
“Just because you look at someone for too long?” Her frown deepens. “How long is too long?”
“Go with your gut. Hennessy will stay by your side and my parents will be nearby. And remember, you’re always on camera. From the moment you get out of the car until the moment you get back into it. People will be recording you. Waiting for you to do or say something stupid, so they can sell it, or just post it themselves. Don’t give them the opportunity.”
Dahlia nods firmly, clasping her hands in front of herself like a nervous kid. Which is when I notice that her hands are bare.
A fresh ache grips my chest as I pull my engagement ring from my finger. I stare at it for a moment as I hold it up between us. “This is very important to me. It’s the ring Hennessy gave me when he asked me to marry him. He designed it himself, which means that even if you had all the credits in the world, you couldn’t buy me a replacement. So don’t let anything happen to this.”
Dahlia shakes her head when I try to give it to her. “If it’s that valuable, you should just keep it.”
“ ‘I’ can’t show up at my own engagement party without my engagement ring. Put it on the third finger of your left hand.”
Dahlia reluctantly slides the ring onto her finger. Then she stares at her hand as if she’s never seen it before. “It’s heavier than it looks.”
I remember thinking the same thing when Hennessy put it on my hand. “That’s because it’s important. Be careful and don’t gesture with your hands. It snags on things.”
“Okay.” Dahlia’s forehead furrows with some new thought, and her fear is back. “What about dancing? There was lots of dancing at Seren’s party.”
“There won’t be tonight. The hardest part will be a series of toasts to the couple of honor. It’s a tradition. Just laugh when Hennessy laughs, raise your glass when everyone else does, and keep smiling.” Thank goodness her teeth are perfect. “Ultimately, that’s the advice you should fall back on, when in doubt. Waverly Whitmore is always smiling.”
Trigger 17 is dressed and ready to go the moment Waverly opens his bedroom door. His soldier’s uniform is a little different from what he wore in Lakeview, but it’s similar enough to make me feel strangely wistful, in addition to the nervous excitement already buzzing just beneath my skin.
Waverly thinks having Hennessy at my side should be comforting, but I’m much happier about having Trigger at my back.
“Wow. You look…” Instead of trying to find words, he pulls me close for a kiss, but Waverly slides her hand between our faces at the last second.
“You’ll smudge her lipstick.” She seems pleased for the excuse to deny us our moment, and though Trigger looks irritated—and also very attractive in his new uniform—I understand her resentment. I’ll be spending the evening in her clothes, at her party, with her fiancé, while she sits at home reading the public feeds. “Remember to ride up front with the driver and stay three steps behind Dahlia when you’re walking,” she tells Trigger. “The party’s in a secure setting, so once you get inside, stay in the background. Off camera.”
He gives her an amused look. “I think I can handle it.”
Waverly flounces off toward the stairs, and when I start to follow her, Trigger takes my hand and pulls me close, delaying us by a few steps for at least a semblance of privacy.
“I’m so glad to be out of that room,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear, and I have to fight the urge to turn and kiss him. “I didn’t think they were going to let me come, after they disconnected my screen.”
“I convinced Waverly that I would be more comfortable with you there, thus better able to remember everything I’ve learned this week.”
“Come on,” Waverly calls from the top of the right-hand staircase.
Trigger lets me go, and we head down the steps side by side.
The sun is low on the horizon as we step outside, where Hennessy is leaning against his car. He glances from Waverly to me, then back as we descend from the front porch, and it’s obvious that he can’t tell which of us is which. Until his gaze trails over our clothing. Waverly’s not dressed t
o go out.
Clearly relieved to have identified his fiancée, he greets her with an embrace and a kiss on the cheek. “I wish you were coming with me,” he says softly, probably hoping I can’t hear him.
“Me too.” She sighs. “Don’t let Dahlia have more than one drink,” she whispers to Hennessy.
“I won’t.” He presses his forehead against hers and closes his eyes, as if they’re communicating without speaking. Brain-to-brain. They look really sweet together, even though there aren’t any cameras here to catch the moment.
Trigger opens the rear car door for me, then climbs into the front seat, next to the driver.
“I’ll see you tonight.” Hennessy squeezes Waverly’s hand, and as I slide across the long rear seat, I hear him whisper something else to her. “I love you.”
“Love you too.” They kiss, long and deep—they don’t have to worry about messing up her lipstick. Then Hennessy sits next to me and closes the door.
As the car pulls away, I twist in my seat to see that she’s still standing on the front steps, staring after us.
“So, you ready for this?” Hennessy asks as we pull through the gate and turn onto the sharply sloped street. As its name implies, Mountainside is built into the side of a large mountain, and—as Waverly has already explained—the more credits or power one has, the higher up one lives.
The Whitmores live near the peak. As do the Chapmans. Yet the building we’re headed for is even higher up.
“Waverly says I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I have a tablet now.” I pull it from my pocket to show Hennessy, proud of my gift, and he laughs out loud.
Trigger turns to look. “May I see that?”
“Sorry, man,” Hennessy says. “Waverly will kill me if I let you near any tech. Though I might be convinced to look the other way at least once tonight, if you show me how to lock my sister in her bathroom….”
Trigger chuckles. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
“You’re not missing anything,” I tell him. “The way Waverly explained it, I can download just about anything I want, but I can’t upload anything or access the household system.”
“Naturally,” Trigger says. “They won’t let you communicate with the world, unsupervised.” Which means my new tablet won’t be much use for helping expose Lakeview or for protecting my identicals.
“Why aren’t we riding with Waverly’s parents?” I ask as our car winds its way up the mountain.
“They’re already there. We’re the guests of honor, so we arrive a little late, to make a grand entrance.” He winks at me. “Also so Audra can get some interviews with the people waiting for us.”
I must look scared again, because he gives me a friendly shoulder nudge. “Don’t worry. I’ll be by your side all night.”
Trigger stiffens in the front seat, and I want to remind him again that this is pretend. Acting, like in the scripted shows I’ve started watching on my wall screen when I’m trying to fall asleep alone in the blue room at night. But I don’t know how to reassure him without making it worse.
“We’re almost there.” Hennessy leans forward to peer out the window on my side of the car. “Protesters are always near the event, but not too near.”
“Protesters?” I follow his gaze and find a crowd of people gathered on the sidewalk, pumping their fists in the air angrily. They’re all wearing worn coats, their cheeks red from the cold. Some of them hold signs that show Waverly’s name crossed through with red slashes. Others display slogans like “NO MORE CLONES!” and “CITIZENS DESERVE TO WORK!”
“The police hold them at least a block away. That doesn’t keep them out of the news footage, but it will keep them off the show.”
The protesters appear to be shouting, but…“Why can’t we hear them?”
“Hang on.” Hennessy taps on his own window, and when it fogs over, I realize that the windows are made of e-glass. A menu appears, and he deselects a box labeled Mute. Suddenly I hear the shouting, which is actually a synchronized chant echoing the slogans on the signs.
Hennessy moves his finger up a slider on the glass. The higher his finger moves, the louder the protest gets.
“The windows are interactive?” Trigger taps his window, but nothing happens.
“Just the ones back here. Sorry,” Hennessy says. And he actually does sound sorry.
I twist to watch the protesters as our car passes them. “They’re saying they don’t like clones? Why?”
Hennessy looks conflicted for a moment. “It’s not actually clones they don’t like. It’s the system. It’s more cost-effective in the long run for businesses to buy clones than to employ citizens.”
“Really?” Trigger turns to give Hennessy a skeptical look. “Why?”
“Well, clones are expensive up front, but employees draw salaries and benefits, and they get time off, and there are legal limits on the number of hours that can be worked in a given period. None of that is true for clones.”
“What kind of benefits do citizens get?” I ask.
“Childcare. Medical care. Dental. Days off work when they’re sick. Days off for vacation.” Hennessy frowns at my look of incomprehension. “That’s time off to relax and be with your family. Take a trip. They also get maternity leave—time off when a woman has a baby.”
“And clones don’t get any of that.” I’ve known that since the day we got to Mountainside, but it isn’t what clones don’t get that surprises me. It’s what citizens do get. I know that Waverly and Hennessy and their friends live drastically different lives than their servants do, but until this moment, I didn’t truly understand that the same is true of the other citizens.
Even those protesters out there who have no jobs and no credits have the freedom to choose what to wear. What to eat. They have the option of standing on the sidewalk and shouting about things they find unfair.
Clones just…don’t. And because of the mental fog they operate in, they couldn’t do those things even if they had the option.
“For a long time, clone labor was almost exclusively used for military and security, and for household staff for the wealthier families. But my dad says that a few decades ago, businesses started buying clones instead of hiring electricians, and bakers, and tailors, and…well, gardeners,” Hennessy says with an awkward shrug in my direction. “The number of clones in service skyrocketed. Citizens started losing their jobs. That led to an unemployment crisis. And not just in Mountainside. It’s pretty much all over.”
“These protesters show up everywhere you and Waverly go?” I ask as we turn a corner and I can no longer see or hear them. “Why?”
“DigiCore’s subsidiary companies used to be the largest employer of citizens in Mountainside. Then they made the transition to clone labor, and all those people lost their jobs.”
My mind spins, trying to puzzle through the complexities. It’s not the clones’ fault that we—they—exist. But it’s not the citizens’ fault that they have no jobs, thus no way to earn the credits that pay for their food and housing.
The only ones winning under this system are the wealthy, like the Whitmores and the Chapmans. And the Administrator.
What would happen if all the clones in Mountainside could protest?
“Okay, here we go!” Hennessy sits straighter and stares out the windshield between the front seats.
A crowd has gathered in front of the building we’re evidently headed toward, and most of the people have large cameras fitted with bright lights. Those who don’t are already holding tablets up in our direction, obviously filming.
A sudden surge of nerves overtakes me.
“Breathe,” Hennessy says. Then he leans forward and taps Trigger on the shoulder, just as the car pulls to a stop. “You’re up.”
Trigger gives me a reassuring smile. Then he opens his door and gets out.
“What part?” My nerves are buzzing like bees beneath the surface of my skin.
“If you want people to believe what we’re about to do, you have to sell them not just on you, but on us. You have to make people believe you’re in love with me. Even if that means pretending I’m Trigger 17.”
We get out of the car, and Hennessy takes my hand as he waves to the crowd. I wave too, just as I’ve seen Waverly do in several videos, but this time my wave shows off the union ink, free of both bandages and swelling, and swirling with color, because its mate is so close by. I give the crowd a broad smile and, taking Hennessy’s advice, I pretend it’s Trigger’s hand in mine.
Though Waverly frequently stops to speak to people in crowds, Hennessy keeps us moving, and in seconds we’re in the lobby of a tall building, where the e-glass spanning one large wall shows a series of silent video clips of my clone and her fiancé and declares that the Whitmore–Chapman engagement party is taking place in the Precipice Ballroom. Which evidently takes up the entire top floor.
Trigger follows Hennessy and me into the elevator, then stands imposingly in the doorway, preventing anyone else from following us in. For which I’m grateful. My palms are damp and my ankles feel a bit wobbly in my high heels. “How many people will be at this party?” I ask as the elevator rises.
“Didn’t you say the guest list was about four hundred strong?” Hennessy squeezes my hand and glances up at the corner of the elevator.
Oh. There must be a camera.
“That sounds about right,” I mumble.
Trigger glances over his shoulder and gives me a reassuring smile, and suddenly I remember that he and I met in an elevator. I wish this were that elevator.
I wish we were back then and there, but knew what we know here and now.