by Beth Revis
Mom’s new nursing android, Rosie, stands at attention by the door and Mom leans against her as she heads to the lift.
“Coming?” Mom asks, the happy glow of her reverie around her so palpable that I can almost see it.
“No—I need to talk to Ella about her internship,” Ms. White says before I can reply. She shoots me a look, and I wave Mom on. After we hear the lift doors close behind Mom and the android, Ms. White turns on me, her face a mix of pride and anger.
“Ella!” she says, her voice already rising. “That was really, really dangerous!”
I shudder, my body remembering that moment when it seized, and then it became nothing. I’d thought I’d died.
“I was fine,” I say to her dismissively. “And more importantly, it worked.”
Ms. White sucks in a breath. “What was it like?” she asks eagerly, the familiar sparkle of scientific discovery in her eye.
“It was amazing!” I shout, spinning around her. “I was in her reverie! I could control it!”
Ms. White’s eyes widen.
“It was just like I was there,” I continue. I start to tell her everything, but she raises her hand to stop me, a grim look replacing her excitement.
“How many bots did you take?” she asks.
“Just one vial.”
“One… vial?”
“Is that too much?”
“I… uh… you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I feel fine.” At least, I do now. If I took too many, maybe that’s why my body reacted so violently.
“Ella, that was very irresponsible. And dangerous. You could have overdosed.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t.”
“But you could have.”
“But I didn’t.” I glare at Ms. White. What I do is not her business, especially when what I do, I do for Mom.
Ms. White sinks into the reverie chair Mom just left. Her shoulders slouch forward, the ends of her hair obscuring her face. “You’re going to have to let go one day,” she says.
“Excuse me?” The words sound harsh in my own mouth.
“This internship year was supposed to prepare you for college, not prepare you for becoming a nurse to your mother. The year’s almost up, and look at what you’re doing. You’re killing yourself, just to let your mother dream for a half hour.”
“It’s worth it,” I mutter.
Ms. White grabs my chin and forces me to look up at her. “It’s not,” she says.
I jerk free. “What do you want me to do?” I ask, practically shouting. “Just let my mother die?”
Ms. White’s gaze doesn’t waver from mine. “Yes,” she says simply.
I reel back violently, as if she’d struck me across the face.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Ms. White says. “I just need you to understand that you’re going to have to let your mother go one day. Maybe one day soon. And it’s not worth risking the rest of your life to scrabble together a few more minutes for her.”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” I say, my jaw tensing.
“El—”
“I do not want to talk about this.”
We glare at each other. It’s so rare for us to disagree. Since Dad’s death and Akilah’s service year on the lunar base, it’s just been me and Ms. White against the world.
Ms. White sighs and pushes up against her knees. “I didn’t come down here to fight,” she says. “I came here because there’s someone to meet you.”
For one crazy moment, my mind flashes to the boy I met in the groveyard. Did he follow me home? His pale blue eyes are burned into my memory, scorching my mind.
“Are you ready?” Ms. White asks, leading the way to the door.
eleven
I soon learn that whoever it is I’m meeting, I’m not meeting him here. Ms. White assures me that Mom’s fine to stay with the nursing android alone, and she gets into an auto-taxi with me. I try to quiz her as we zip around Central Gardens, but Ms. White just smiles obliquely.
The drive isn’t long. The auto-taxi stops at the barricades around Triumph Towers, the capital building at the other end of Central Gardens.
I shoot Ms. White a look, but she still doesn’t answer me. My stomach starts to twist with nerves.
When New Venice was originally built, Triumph Towers were meant to symbolize the combined government—the Unified Countries—born from the ashes of war, like a phoenix. They look even more like flames now that the newly developed solar glass has been affixed to the top of each of the five towers. The solar glass glitters like crystallized amber, radiating a soft glow visible even in the bright daylight. At night, the towers cast most of the city in a warm twilight so that it’s never really dark here. The giant blue-and-white flag symbolizing the UC flaps noisily just behind a beautiful marble water fountain in the plaza stretching out between the towers and Central Gardens.
Ms. White straightens her pale linen jacket and leads me across the plaza, crowded with tourists, street androids trying to sell us tantalizing snacks, and hawkers pitching tourism program downloads. A plethora of languages drifts through the air, words I don’t recognize weaving together with ones I do. The nanobots in my ears struggle to translate the differing languages, but it’s a mismatched mess, bits and pieces of everything everyone’s saying, mostly excitement to go to the top of the world’s tallest tower, from which you can see both Europe and Africa.
Ms. White leads me past the fountain and the crowds, toward a less ostentatious entrance. She flashes her cuff at one of the security guards, and we’re quickly whisked away into the central tower and to a high-speed lift that carries us up and up. My heart races as we rise, and I’m deeply aware of how disheveled I look. Beside me, Ms. White looks perfect, every one of her pale blond hairs smooth, her pencil skirt straight.
“Don’t worry,” Ms. White says, grinning when she notices my nerves.
The lift doors slide open to one of the top floors of the tower. I trail behind Ms. White absorbing every detail.
Most of the outer walls are floor-to-ceiling tinted glass, giving me a glimpse of the world outside. The bridge New Venice is built on is nearly ten kilometers long and wide, filled with skyscrapers and city streets and buildings, but still, it’s just a bridge. From the rooftop garden above my apartment, I have a great view of Central Gardens and Triumph Towers, but it’s rare for me to catch a glimpse of the sea—there are too many buildings. But here, atop the tallest tower in the city, I can see the clean lines of the perimeter of the city, and the glittering caps of waves rolling from the Mediterranean. I trace the outline of the city with my eyes. I can see exactly where the bridge connects with the island of Malta, where the smooth lines of the manufactured meets the broken, rocky edges of the natural land.
“Ella?” Ms. White calls, and I rush forward to keep up. A large, ornate set of double doors is closed in front of her. As I step beside her, the doors creak open.
A woman stands on the other side, and my breath catches in my throat.
“No freaking way,” I say, then I clap a hand over my mouth.
The woman smiles.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says.
I stutter out some sort of reply, still gaping at her. This is the most famous woman in the world. Prime Administrator Hwa Young is on her second ten-year term, and while she has a reputation of being ruthless, she has a kind smile on her petal-pink lips now, and I find myself unable to tear my eyes away from her. She’s been the PA my entire life, but my awe has more to do with her power than her fame. Before she was PA, she was Secretary of War, and she, more than any other single person, ended the Secessionary War.
She is, quite simply, the hero of the new world.
She looks pretty, but not beautiful, and while she’s plainly dressed, it’s clear that her wardrobe is expensive. The suit jacket she wears is smooth and supple, the skirt moves like water falling over her slim hips. Although I know she’s around sixty years old, she looks half her age, with her sleek black hai
r draped neatly over her shoulders.
“Please, come in,” P.A. Young says graciously, stepping back so we can file into her office. With a flick of her fingers, the security personnel who’d been escorting us dissolves—some back into the hallway, some to an adjoining room, some beside the doors as they close with a dull thud. Ms. White touches my shoulder, gently steering me toward the cushioned seats across from a small circular table. PA Young sits first, then Ms. White pushes me into a seat before claiming her own chair.
PA Young starts to pour tea for us, adding a slice of lemon and a drizzle of honey to hers. I take a cup, but I’m too nervous to drink, so I leave it on the small table by my knee. My eyes keep darting to Ms. White. When she said we had an appointment to meet someone, I had no idea she meant her.
“I suspect you’re curious as to why I asked Jadis to bring you to me,” PA Young says.
I nod silently. My face feels like it’s on fire. PA Young has this way of looking at me, as if I am one hundred percent the object of her focus, and it’s disconcerting.
PA Young leans forward, concern etched on her face. “I needed to warn you.”
The words are so reminiscent of what the boy at the groveyard said earlier today that I’m too shocked to say anything.
“Your mother’s technology… it’s groundbreaking.”
A smile creeps up on my face. I’m proud of Mom and her work.
“But,” PA Young continues, “it’s also very dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” I ask. What’s dangerous about people reliving their memories?
“I’ve read your mother’s published research. It seems possible that people could misuse it. While it’s not been done before, it’s theoretically possible that someone could enter someone else’s reverie—”
“It’s no longer a theory,” Ms. White interrupts.
The silence in the room is like a physical thing, a snake winding its way around us. PA Young’s head turns slowly to Ms. White.
“Ella did it. This afternoon.”
PA Young whips back around to me. “Is this true?” she asks, a hard edge to her voice.
I twist my hands in my lap. “I—yes.” Her gaze is so intense that I feel as if it will bore into me.
“Well.” PA Young stands up. She sounds impressed. “Well, this changes everything.”
twelve
The prime administrator stands, leaving the tea behind as she crosses her office to the glass wall showing an unmarred view of the Mediterranean Sea. When PA Young touches it, though, the interface system comes to life. A dozen or more images light up as the window turns opaque, blotting out the sky and sea on the other side. Documents with text too small for me to read from where I am, images of a military base, people I don’t know.
In the center, though, is an image of my mother.
PA Young touches my mother’s holographic face and moves the image to the upper corner. Beneath it, she moves an image of the Reverie Mental Spa and a reverie chair—the same chair Mom was in earlier today.
“Your mother has used her technology for recreation up to this point,” PA Young says. “A plaything for rich clientele who want to amuse themselves.”
Her words are harsh; I wouldn’t describe Mom’s work quite so dismissively. Sure, most of our customers just want to relive their glory days, but that doesn’t make it worthless.
PA Young touches another image and enlarges it, putting it beside Mom’s picture. It’s an older man, with olive skin and dark hair greying at the temples. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he looks as if he’s about to laugh despite the fact that the picture is rather formal.
“This is Santiago Belles, the Representative Administrator from Spain,” PA Young says. “I believe he’s been approached by terrorists who wish to undermine the Unified Countries, and that he’s considering treason.”
I stare hard at the face, trying to see the evil behind his smiling eyes. He doesn’t look like a traitor, but then again, no one ever does, not when you really look.
PA Young brings forward the holograms of Representative Belles and my mother’s reverie chair. She turns around, looking at me expectantly.
I glance at Ms. White, unsure of what I’m supposed to do.
“Ella,” Ms. White says carefully, “you went into your mother’s reverie. Into her mind.”
“And you can go into Belles’s,” PA Young continues. “You can find out who approached him, how deep the terrorist network goes. You have the potential to stop violence before it happens. We could try to trick the information out of him, or torture him, or anything else, but he could never be able to keep a secret from you, not when you were in his head.”
My eyes widen at the thought, and I swallow a lump rising in my throat. Ms. White moves behind me. “We need to do more testing, first,” Ms. White says firmly. “We have to make sure that Belles won’t know that Ella’s in his reverie, and we have to find a way to keep her safe.”
PA Young stares at Ms. White for a long moment, and for the first time I understand why people are afraid of her. Without speaking, she turns back to the glass wall and brings up another image—a video clip. She enlarges it so that it fills up the entire space, then turns around to watch me with cold eyes as it plays.
I choke back my surprise.
My father. He’s right there, in the lab on the screen. The audio’s low, but I can just make out what’s being said. Dad’s talking with a few of the other scientists about a lab assistant that was recently let go while they’re working on some sort of chemical compound. There’s an early prototype of a reverie chair in the background—Dad had been experimenting with the chairs’ functions to tap into android artificial intelligence.
Another man walks in. He looks nondescript—average height and build, wearing a lab coat—but everyone in the lab freezes. I see fear in my dad’s eyes.
The man who just walked in turns slowly in a circle, looking at each of the scientists in turn. Then his gaze meets the video cameras; he must have known exactly where it was. It’s not until his eyes meet mine that I realize—this isn’t a man.
It’s an android.
“This is a warning,” the android says.
And then it explodes.
The screen goes white.
Bile rises in my throat, and I look around urgently, certain that I’m going to vomit.
I just saw my father’s death.
Ms. White strokes my back, swiping my sweaty hair out of my face. “Really, Hwa, you didn’t have to show her that,” she says, glaring at the PA.
PA Young crouches in front of me, peering up at my face. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought you knew.”
“Of course I knew he was killed,” I snap. And I knew how. The casket for my father had been shorter than it needed to be; they were only able to salvage some of his body after the explosion. And while I had known it was terrorists who set off the bomb, I never knew anything more than a nebulous idea that it had been some faceless group.
I look up at the holographic image of Representative Belles.
“I need you to understand,” PA Young says. Her voice is gentle, but firm. “I need you to know just how dangerous a game we’re playing. Because…”
“No,” Ms. White’s voice cuts across the room.
PA Young looks up at her. “We have to.”
“What?” I ask.
“No,” Ms. White repeats. “It’s too dangerous. She’s just a little girl.”
“I already understand the danger,” I say in a hollow voice, not taking my eyes off PA Young. “I saw my father’s body, after. I understand.”
Some sort of communication flashes between Ms. White and PA Young. But Ms. White steps back, ducking her head.
“I was Secretary of War for the UC before I was elected as Prime Administer, you know.”
I do know. She was elected in a landslide; her work in ending the Secessionary War made her a cinch. She’s the first PA who saw battle, the first to be a war hero.
&nbs
p; “I studied war; I lived it. The Secessionary War was unlike any other. The first to use androids in battle, the first with nanorobotic bombs. And of course, the death toll was higher than any other war in history. The thing you have to remember,” PA Young continues with a far-distant look in her eyes, “is that in the end, all war does is kill people. We can pretend it’s something else, but it’s not.” Her clear eyes meet mine. “You know what my favorite war is?”
I shake my head. I didn’t know people had favorite wars.
“World War II.” PA Young’s voice is musing. “In the early 1900s, there was the first World War—of course, they didn’t call it ‘World War I.’ They called it ‘The Great War,’ or ‘The War to End all Wars.’ And then armies rose again, and we had another World War. That’s why I like World War II. It was the war that came after the war to end all wars. It reminds me: the war is never over. We can’t stop fighting it.”
I stare at PA Young, unsure of what to say. The war is over—not just the ones she’s talking about, but the Secessionary War, too. It’s been over for longer than I’ve been alive.
When PA Young meets my eyes, I can tell that she sees my doubt. “The war never ends,” she repeats, her voice more firm now, none of the reminiscence lingering. “And there is always a price to pay. Always. For some, the price was immediate.”
She turns to Ms. White, who’s been hanging back behind us. PA Young holds out her hand, demanding… something, but I’m not sure what. Without a word, Ms. White strips off the crisp linen suit jacket she’d been wearing and starts to unbutton her white blouse. My eyes go wide with shock, and she slips one shoulder of her shirt down.
And then I see it—the thin silver line that divides Ms. White’s real body from the cyborg arm. Ms. White presses a hidden button in her arm, and twists it off, slipping it out of her sleeve and handing it over to PA Young without a word.
I stare at the arm in horror. Ms. White hardly ever takes it off, but there it is, in the PA’s hand, the stump made of silver and chrome and glistening with bio-lube. The fingers still twitch—an automatic movement as it resets.
