The Veritas Project

by C. F. E. Black

  Pru coughs, uncomfortable in the strange silence. “How anyone knows who these people are, though, is the confusing part. How does this Boast guy know who’s gen-eng?”

  “It’s just a matter of some hacking. Anything stored digitally is susceptible to hackers. Even our own genetic code, if it’s been manipulated by a computer.” Ty shrugs.

  Attempting to redirect the conversation, Pru brings us back to the point. “So, we have to tail a murderer? Why isn’t he already behind bars if he’s killed two people?”

  Ty, grateful for the change of topic, nods. “Because the evidence is spotty. M has been hired to watch him to see if he is in association with a man known to be ethically and morally opposed to gen-sel. We think he’s been hired by this man to take out gen-eng humans.”

  “Morally opposed to genetic selection but not morally opposed to murder,” I say. “Makes perfect sense.”

  Ty shakes his head. “I know, I’m just answering your question. Come on, let’s go. We can talk about this on the way to my apartment.”

  We follow Ty out a back door, up a bare concrete stairwell, and out into a parking deck nearly as tall and deep as the mall itself. We crawl into a dumpy old gas burner—a highly taxed classic as Ty puts it—and putter out into the city. He drives us away from the city center, back out into the part of town where cracks in the pavement are more common than smooth asphalt and weeds pry their way between sidewalk stones. We turn in toward a short, many-windowed building across the street from a wide sea of abandoned tractor trailers surrounded by a chain-link fence. Tumbleweeds of trash skate across the parking lot, stopping at the chain link fence, where a small retaining wall of old cans and decaying brown bags has begun to grow. And amid the trash, rats. One scurries away from the car as we approach it.

  “Rats?” Pru asks with a definite hiss of disgust.

  “They won’t hurt you. They’re just drones.”

  Drones?

  “Why rats?” Pru barks, clearly horrified.

  Ty seems amused. “Because everyone hates them. People see rats and they stay away. Hence the genius of them.”

  I’m starting to think this sea of rotting trailers is more than meets the eye. “What’s he got in those things? Gold?”

  Ty looks at me like somehow I’ve guessed the next lottery number. “Not exactly.”

  We get out of the car and head toward the brick building that looks to be from the era of Watson and Crick. No sleek glass windows, no steel visible. Just mortar smeared on by hand.

  We step up to the external stairwell of the building. A few people huddled on the corner across the street from us look up. A boy jerks his head back and smiles, mouth open wide.

  “Ey, Ty! Who dat?”

  “M’s newest employees! Ooh-a!” He shakes his hands in the air in front of his face, flapping his fingers back and forth, making some kind of ridiculous display.

  “Ooh-a!” The boy flips his fingers in the air a few times, too, then turns his head back down. Those around him do the same.

  I raise a brow.

  “Just saved you some trouble. That’s Wade. It’d be best if you two—” he looks from me to Pru “—stay away from him.” Ty pauses for a second, looking at us with concern. His eyes uncomfortably move down my frame, then back up. “Y’all really don’t know anything about life out here, do you?”

  “Of course we do! We’ve been to the mall countless times, you know.” Pretentious of him to think we know nothing!

  He shakes his head. “No, you don’t know a thing.”

  Ty’s apartment is small, greying in the corners, and in need of fresh paint. The carpet stinks and the sink boasts crusted stains from meals long forgotten. I wonder if rat drones live in here, too. Or real ones. They’d like it. A bookshelf takes up one whole wall, crammed with decaying titles and frayed spines. One book lies open on the table in the center of the room, its pages yellowed and marked with lines.

  “Books with pages, eh?” I ask, filing in behind him and Pru. “Old school.”

  “Yes, I did go to an old school. Dad wanted me to get a traditional education among traditional families.” The hiss in the last two words says Ty did not fit in among these people. “But those are from the library that closed down the street. No one else wanted them.” Ty pauses and shuts the door behind us. “For today, you can sleep here. I’ll crash somewhere else tonight.”

  Pru and I mill around, not sure where to stand, and end up by the couch. I look at the sagging cushions, afraid I’ll upset a tribe of fleas if I sit. Pru holds a finger under her nose.

  “You won’t catch a disease from it.” He leans on his kitchen counter, sighs. “I know this isn’t what you’re used to. But it’s what I can afford. So save me your condescending stares.”

  I blink, then sit. Pru hovers for a moment, but her exhaustion wins and she, too, sits.

  Trying to lighten Ty’s offended air, I offer, “It’s different. But different is good. We hated it in there.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Pru snaps at me. Then to Ty, “M’s offices are nicer than this. If he’s your father, why do you live here?”

  The question takes Ty by surprise. Before answering, he exhales. “I wanted to show M I could provide for myself. And he needed someone living nearby. Nearby those trailers you saw outside.”

  “So you’re trying to impress your father by living here? Or you’re obeying orders?” I ask, curious.

  Before Ty can sputter out a string of curse words, Pru’s hand settles just briefly on my thigh—a gesture I have never felt or experienced before, but one I immediately understand. A gesture that says hush.

  “All right,” Ty snorts, angry now. Straightening, he runs a hand over his short hair. “Just stay here until I get back. This world will try to eat you kids alive. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen or it’ll be my fault, and Dad will be out his two newest spies.”

  He turns, grabs the key he’d placed on the counter, and opens the apartment door.

  “Ty,” I venture, feeling utterly stupid for having to ask, “is there anything we can eat?” I’ve never felt so low in my entire life, asking a stranger for food. “And I don’t have money to pay you, either.”

  He stares for a moment, then, with a glance at Pru, he chuckles, expression softening. “Yeah, sorry. I bet you’re starving. Eat whatever you can find in the kitchen.” He raises his hands. “And you don’t have to pay me. I’ll be back later.” The door closes behind him.

  In the silence following his exit, thoughts bombard my unmonitored head. It feels weird to know that at no point in the foreseeable future will I hear my old name, Valeria V, used. No commands in my ear. No streams. No unwanted thoughts piping in through my sensors. And no Marcus. No research! No clean bed.

  Stop it!

  Pru pries herself off the couch. “I’m starving.”

  “Food,” I mutter, following her into the kitchen.

  “Food,” she agrees. “Then sleep.”

  “Yes, food then sleep.” We sound like cavemen. Reduced to our most basic needs, it doesn’t matter that we are geniuses, that we were recently just manipulating genetic code or building microscopic robots or streaming our thoughts to fifteen other people. It doesn’t even matter that we hate each other. We are hungry. We are thirsty. We are tired. We are together, like it or not.

  We scrounge in the kitchen—horrid place!—and find a red box that contains something that is apparently edible. Little bright orange squares that are supposed to replicate cheese in some fashion. I pop one in my mouth. Salty! Pru and I devour the remaining half of the little squares and eat a piece of bread each. The bread is strange, spongy and completely white. Not like the dense, brown bread we ate at the Center. Pru disappears into the bedroom. With a moan and the grinding of old bedsprings, she collapses in one motion on the bed. Heading for the couch, I immediately feel a gurgling discomfort in my stomach. What did I just eat?

  As I lie in the dark of Ty’s apartment, stomach churning, I drift to sleep thin
king of M, Julius, and a gen-eng murderer.

  Nineteen

  M knows exactly where Julius is. He’s already preparing what he calls his extraction plan. Only to take effect if we successfully deliver the needed surveillance on this Boast character. This murderer.

  “M never works for free,” Ty’s friend, Oscar, says as we sit in Ty’s living room over bowls of take-out Chinese. My stomach is already rebelling from the level of chemical additives, but I keep eating.

  Oscar, who is shorter than I am but carved out of warm sandstone, has a blue band cutting into his arm above his veined bicep. He is older than Ty, but not by much. Enough to need to shave often. His hands are busted at the knuckles, and his face, though young, has spent so much time squinting—or sneering—that lines like the branching of sister chromatids split from the corners of his deep-set eyes.

  The morning was spent in showers and shopping and berating Ty with questions.

  “Calm down,” he says over a sticky bite of chicken. “Oscar will take you. I’ve got work tonight, but I’ll be back at SI before the party is over.”

  “You’re going to watch, too?” I roll my eyes. “Who else wants to peep into my brain, have a look around?”

  Ty shuffles, uncomfortable, but Pru comes to his rescue. “Shut it, V. Julius, remember?” She’s right. We’re doing this for him. We can’t let him stay with the Reds. “Besides, it’s not a stream. They won’t see our thoughts, just our surroundings. Like a camera.”

  “The best camera there ever was!” Oscar shouts. “No wires, no device. No trace.” He lifts his chopsticks—which are dripping noodles—and adds, “We need us some of them!”

  Ty sticks an arm out to stop my fingernails from clawing Oscar’s throat.

  “Whoa, now! Chain Brain over here getting a little feisty!” He looks from me to Pru. “I mean, can you guys hear each other’s thoughts right now?”

  Pru and I exchange a look. Neither of us deems his question worthy of an answer. I’m starting to wonder why Ty brought him around.

  “Don’t ever wish these things on yourself. On anyone.” I point at my sensors. “You have no idea what it’s like to have your brain chained.”

  The noodles slide off his lifted chopsticks, some landing back in the box, some slithering onto the floor. For a moment, he blinks at me, silent.

  “All right. Let’s review the plan,” Ty says, drawing us back on course. “Boast is gaining power in the Reds every day. He’s in tight with their leader, Emmanuel Gent. Which means he’ll become more and more protected from the law. Gangs do that, you know.”

  I interject. “And M thinks he’s somehow the hit man for gen-eng people?” I find it odd that I’m using the term now, a term I hated for so long. But it seeped into my vocabulary like ions down a gradient.

  Oscar laughs but doesn’t elaborate.

  “Yes, V, that’s pretty much right. M doesn’t share all his information, not even with me. We know he wants to see Boast receive payment; that’s all we know. They won’t deal in money, it’s too traceable. It’ll be something concrete. Something valuable.”

  Pru picks at a piece of broccoli. “If we see this exchange, what actually happens? Who are we helping? Other than Julius, of course. Why does M want to see this exchange so badly? Can it prove he’s a murderer?”

  I wait for the answer.

  Ty’s brows draw down just barely. “Look, I told you. M doesn’t tell me everything just because I’m his son. He does his job. I do mine. If M wants to see this, and you two can do it for him, I’d say just do it and don’t ask too many questions. If you want your friend back.”

  I’d press harder if I thought he was lying. But the tension in his voice, as if his throat were constricting like a clogged artery, tells me his answer hurts him more than it does us. Eyeing my globular chicken, I decide he’s right. Julius’ safety is more important than having all the cards in M’s little game.

  Pru bursts into laughter when she sees me.

  “Shut up,” I say, tugging on the hem of the dress. “You look pretty ridiculous yourself.”

  Pru’s clothing, tinkling with beads and bamboo tubes, turns her shoulders into nothing more than tent poles. Haute couture, apparently, is dressing like bedazzled camping equipment. She toys with several twisted bamboo tubes, ignoring my comment. Her bald head—she refused a wig—shines with defiance, as if her skull, so visible, is a constant reminder of where her true loyalty still lies: with the Center. M, however, insisted on covering the sensors at the back of her head with foolproof makeup. Now no one can detect the thought-transmitting devices, even with close scrutiny.

  “You ladies ready?” Ty asks, one hand carefully angled to cover his thin smile.

  We must look as uncomfortable as we feel. If Pru’s dress is a tent, mine is a mosquito net. So I insisted we find a slip that could work under this silly excuse for a dress; if not for that, I’d not be wearing these clothes.

  “Do people just dig detritus out of dumpsters and call it clothing?” I ask, pulling, for the fiftieth time on the slip as it bunches in strange places.

  Pru chuckles but silences herself as soon as I look over at her.

  I direct my next question at Oscar, who will be our escort for the evening. “Do we really look like we belong at this party?”

  Oscar tilts his square head to examine us. “You pass.” I suppose that is an affirmative. Better than a no. “But quit yanking on it.”

  The assignment—aside from the clothes—sounds simple enough: go to a party. All we have to do is act like we’re having a good time. That, and make sure we see the expected exchange between a gen-eng murderer and his contact. We know nothing else. I’m used to knowing more than is necessary, to having all the answers to my questions at my fingertips. But this is different. Julius would do the same for us. In fact, he already did.

  “Boast will not come in quietly. Not his style,” Oscar says, reminding us who we’re looking for as we zip across the web of overpasses toward the center of town. The buildings disappear into the night sky. “Soon as he gets there, don’t let him out of your sight.” He eyes both of us as if we’re on a job interview. His stone-carved expression makes me frown.

  “What if he’s not there? What if we miss the exchange?” Pru asks, toying with the items dangling from her sleeve.

  “Stop that,” Oscar says, swatting at her hand. The car purrs into a parking deck and shuts off. “He’ll be there. And he won’t suspect any eyes or ears in the crowd. They’ll check you for bugs, but they won’t check for a chain brain.” He cackles at his sense of humor. “I’d go for models.” He eyes me. “Well, not you. If Pru’s the model, you’re the … photographer?”

  I scowl. “I’m the geneticist.”

  “Not here, you’re not. Don’t say a word about your nerdy little lives in there.”

  With a sniff, I dismiss his stupidity. He leaves it at that and waves us out of the car. “You were invited by Tag. Just say it and you shouldn’t have any problems getting in. My guess is, you two won’t have any problems anyway.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Pru asks.

  Oscar lowers his voice. “It means, sweetheart, that you two are pretty. Pretty girls don’t have trouble getting into parties.”

  We both huff at the same time. At the Center, attractiveness, though common among all Order members, was not something we discussed. Off limits, like so many things.

  I insert the key Oscar gave me into the slot beneath the elevator button for the penthouse. We sail past all the floors, riding to the top. We arrive in seconds. Before the doors open, the music beats through the metal doors.

  When the doors slide back, a pair of refrigerator-sized men stare at us from an otherwise deserted entryway. Marble tile greets our high heels. Neither of us is steady in these idiotic shoes, but Ty and Oscar insisted we would stand out without them. We walk slowly—hoping not to fall.

  “Invitation?” says refrigerator number one.

  “Tag invited us,�
�� I say with a bored voice. The boys told us to act like snobs. Piece of cake.

  The men look at each other. The spokesman says. “Search ’em.”

  The second man steps up to Pru and starts running a small black square all up and down her frame. The scanner. Ty told us about this. Then it’s my turn. The man steps back to his post.

  “All right,” says the spokesman. He jerks his head at the door behind them.

  Entering this party is like diving into a violent chemical reaction. Dizzying lights scrape my eyes, deafening beats drown my thoughts, and I’m immediately arrested by the amount of movement flowing all around this enormous room. Arms flail like flagella. Hair flips like algae rippling in the sea. Dancing. I glance at Pru. Neither of us is prepared for this.

  “Come on,” she says, hooking one hand under my arm. “We have a job to do. Try not to stare.”

  We weave past the mass of dancing bodies and toward the only still corner of the room—the one that flanks the bar, manned by two black-suited men with ponytails and arms as fast as robots. As instructed, we order two drinks—Ty assured us they wouldn’t be harmful, but we had to have something in our hands or we’d have targets on our heads.

  I take the orange drink and whisper to Pru, “For Julius.” We take a sip. Only orange juice. “Now, let’s find this idiot.”

  Doesn’t take long.

  At the juncture between songs, the house lights come on, accompanied by a chorus of wailing complaints from the crowd. But as soon as the door to the foyer opens, a screech of cheers replaces the wails. In walks a man so tall he has to duck to miss the doorframe. His clothing is a series of contradictions—black and white, flashing and still—and his smile is so fluorescent, I can see it from here.