by Beth Revis
Nothing more than a projection.
Because that’s what he is. This is what the program downloaded directly to my eye nanobots is. It’s a trick. It makes me see my father. Dad’s dead. I force myself to think those words until I believe them again.
I raise the opacity of the program using my cuff, and, sure enough, my dad becomes more and more transparent. More and more ghost-like. Thinking that makes a shiver run up my spine, and I shoot the opacity back down to zero so that he appears solid and real again.
Dad—the projection of Dad that only I can see—raises his arm silently, pointing to the door that leads out of the apartment. I follow him, my eyes half-blinded with unshed tears. Out of the apartment, down the lift, across the lobby, out the front door of the Reverie Mental Spa. And all the while, Dad is just out of my reach, pointing, pointing, pointing. His eyes stare into mine.
I know he’s not real. I know he’s merely a projection in my tech contacts, that he’s a part of a hacker’s program that broke through my security and downloaded into my system against my will, that I should report the program to Ms. White and the interface police, that I should delete the program without a second thought.
But I can’t take my eyes off Dad.
Wherever this computer-generated image of my father is leading me cannot be good. Someone left that file for me to find—me specifically, judging from the retina scan I had to give in order to get to it. And I can’t trust anyone who would use such an underhanded tactic as to send me my father to lead me down an unknown path.
But I can’t not follow my father. I have to see where he’s leading me.
Jack Tyler—or whoever it was who hacked the Reverie interface—did an excellent job at figuring out how I ticked. He knew exactly that the only thing I’d ever follow into the unknown was something with my father’s face.
Dad leads me all the way to the lifts at the center of the park. New Venice is a bridge city, a man-made metropolis that spans across the Mediterranean Sea between the two islands that make up the nation of Malta. The upper city is where the businesses are; the work of the city happens here. But the lower city is where people go to play.
The loud do-dee-doe sounds of the lifts ring out across the central area as the masses of people of converge in the center of the gardens. A fat man pushes past me when I pause, scanning the crowd for Dad. My father’s image stands near one of the lifts, a ghost only I can see, his image wavering as tourists pass through him in the mad scramble to the lifts to the lower city.
I approach the tills in the center of the plaza. Half-androids—the upper half human-shaped, bolted to the lower-half ticket-dispenser—accept credits as people tap their cuffLINKs against the scanners. I do the same, a red twenty credits deducting from my account on the screen when I do.
The lifts are all glass, so that tourists can have the full view of the lower city. I get crammed against the back wall as an entire Australian lacrosse team—all wearing offensively bright orange shirts splattered with their team logo—jumps into the lift after me. They’re loud, but under normal circumstances, I would quite like being packed into a lift with so many good looking young men. But Dad’s disappeared now, and I’m anxiously looking for him through the lift’s glass walls.
The city is beautiful from up here. The ceiling—really just the underside of the bridge—is a perfect, cloudless blue, bright and shining. It’s made using solar glass—a new discovery by the colony on one of the UC’s space missions funded by the FRX—and it ensures that, no matter what the weather in the upper city of New Venice, the lower city is constantly and forever in brilliant sunlight, day and night.
But that’s not why people come here. The original Venice—which was located in Italy, not Malta—sank long before the Secessionary War, but it had grown an almost legend-like status in history, like a real-life Atlantis, tragically lost in history. So when New Venice was being made, the upper city was turned into the highest-tech planned city in the world. A city worthy of Triumph Towers and the capital of the UC. But the lower city was an homage to the past—and to the money tourists brought in. The architects had used historical documents and photographs from the 21st century to recreate the look of Venice and built it directly into the waters of the Mediterranean. The marble and tile and hand-blown glass lamps would look out of place among the glass-fronted advertisement filled towers of the upper city, and it wouldn’t even match the dusty, light-brown limestone of the rest of Malta, but it looks perfect here, rising up from the water. Rather than streets, waterways weave in and out of the city. And, just as the real Venice had once used gondolas, New Venice uses traditional Maltese boats—brilliantly painted luzzi in shades of red and yellow and green, each operated by a luzzolier.
The boys in the lift with me start talking animatedly about what part of the lower city they want to explore first, but I turn my attention to the docking platform. Luzzu boats crowd the side that’s open to the water, and a floor-to-ceiling wall of lights flash advertisements on the other side. I scan the milling tourists at the base, looking for Dad.
I start to panic. I can’t find him. The lift reaches the docking station and bumps to a stop. The lacrosse team shouts out something Australian and cheer-like that I can’t understand and pours out. I follow, slowly, eyes still searching the crowd for Dad.
And then I see him, standing on the other end of the docking station. Luzzoliers crowd their boats near the lifts, hoping to snag tourists right away. You could, technically, walk the city, but no one ever does—the luzzu boats are too well known, too much a “must-do” part of the New Venice experience. The lacrosse players take up five boats, all rocking and nearly tipping over as they jump in a bit too excitedly.
But Dad’s not near these boats. He’s on the far edge of the docking station, well away from the tourists, at the Grand Rialto bridge that connects the docking station to the Renaissance recreations.
I rush past the people piling into the luzzu boats. At the front of each boat is a carved eye—a part of the traditional Maltese design, but even though they’re made of nothing but paint and wood, it feels as if they’re staring at me as I race down the platform.
“Pretty girl!” a luzzolier in an older boat painted yellow and black calls. “Ride my boat. Cheap! No need to walk!”
I raise my left hand at him, showing him the green stripe on my cuff that proves I’m a native to New Venice and not going to be swayed by the same pick-up lines that work on tourists. Sure enough, he shrugs and edges his boat closer to the crowd near the lifts.
When I reach the Grand Rialto bridge, I see Dad standing at the highest point of it, facing the plaza. Street androids walk up and down, selling pastizzi and hot dogs, falafel wraps and gyros. Pigeons—which had apparently overrun the original city in Italy—are a mix of the real thing and mechanical ones, each fitted with camera lens instead of eyes.
I keep racing, Dad always just beyond me. He flashes on and off so quickly now that I can barely keep up—down this street, then the next, over the bridge, past the people queueing up at a luzzu station, over another bridge, around a building, across a plaza, through an alley. The streets grow narrower, and there are less tourists and more natives like me—people who work in the city. I see their real faces now, not the smiling ones they show the tourists. They nod as I run by, watching me curiously. Probably assuming I’m late for work.
And then Dad stops. He’s in front of a doorway, one that looks rather inconspicuous. It’s painted a dingy burgundy, the color cracked and peeling away. The number eight is scratched into the door, followed by a capital Q and another eight. The stoop is littered with empty candy wrappers, a crumpled wad of paper, and, oddly, a small jar full of what looks like honey. A blackened silver-colored knocker shaped like a fist holding a giant ring is bolted to the exact center of the door. Dad doesn’t move. His eyes stare straight ahead—not seeing me, as I know he can’t.
I stop, my chest heaving from the run, my hair sticky with sweat. I try to move
myself into Dad’s line of vision. I want to pretend, even if for just a moment, that he’s here and looking at me. But he’s not. Of course he’s not. I reach through his head and lift the metal ring, letting the knocker fall against the weather-worn door. It opens almost immediately, as if the person on the other side was waiting for me.
Jack Tyler.
eighteen
Jack’s eyes are wide and shocked. I notice that his nose, while unbroken, is still swollen from where I hit him earlier.
“How in the hell did you find me?” Jack demands.
My head snaps back in surprise. I thought he was the one to hack into my cuff and send me the tracking code to get here. I glance nervously behind me, half-expecting someone to pop out of the waterway nearby, as if this were all a setup.
“Shit, did you bring the police?” Jack growls. He starts to slam the door shut, but I cram my foot in the way.
“No,” I shoot back. “Although you’re making me think I should call them.”
“Don’t,” Jack orders. His jaw clenches. He looks furious.
Like he can tell me what to do. If I have to, I’ll bring down the Prime Administrator on his head. But first: “I came for answers.”
“Well, I’m not talking to you. All you do is hit me.” He tries to shut the door again, but my foot remains in the way. I push my shoulder against the door, and Jack curses as it opens more. I’m surprised to see that I can push my way through—he’s far bigger than I—but I have good leverage from my spot on the stoop. I shoulder the door open even further, and Jack gives up, letting it swing open.
“Don’t punch me again,” he says in a defeated tone, backing into the shadows of the house.
I step inside, hesitant, my hand covering my cuff. If I have to, I can push the panic button.
“Shut the door,” Jack growls.
“No,” I shoot back. I want answers, but I don’t want to be locked in a room with this possible psychopath.
Jack reaches around me and pushes the door. It slams shut. My fist is already curled, and he has to duck out of the way to avoid being hit. “I said don’t punch me!” he shouts.
I ignore him and test the doorknob. It’s not locked. I can still escape.
“Why did you even come here if you were just going to leave?” Jack’s not yelling any more, but he still sounds furious. “And how did you find me?”
I don’t answer, my eyes still on the door. Then I say, “Someone sent me a map program to my eye bots. It led me here. Did you do that?”
Jack shakes his head angrily. “I told you I didn’t. Why would I even want you here?”
“The map program used my father’s image.” The hologram of Dad stands silently beside Jack.
Jack is silent for a long moment. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Ella,” he says, his voice softer. “I know how much he meant to you.”
I jerk away from him. “Don’t pretend that you know me,” I snarl.
For the first time, Jack’s face betrays an emotion other than anger and frustration: he seems surprised. Maybe even hurt. His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.
“Regardless,” he says coldly, “it wasn’t me. But I need to know how you found me so I can make sure no one else can find me.”
I open my mouth to argue, my mind racing. This isn’t fitting together the way I thought it would, and I feel unbalanced and thrown off course. I expected to find answers, but all I have is more questions. I need to find out who did hack the interface system and got me the map code. It had to be someone close, someone very close to me—it came from my cuff, after all, to say nothing of the appearance of Dad’s face. And I don’t think it was Jack—his shock was real.
Jack whirls around, staring at me intently. “For there to be a tracking program, there has to be something to track. You can’t just track a person.”
“Unless they have tracker nanobots in them,” I point out.
Jack’s eyes widen, and he looks momentarily panic-stricken, as if he’d like to rip off his skin. But then he shakes his head, “No, that’s not it,” he says, almost as if assuring himself. “Xavier’s meds…”
“Hmm?” I ask, watching him closely.
“I don’t have tracker bots. There’s something else.” Jack narrows his eyes at me. “Son of a bitch,” he says, wonderingly. “I know what it is.” Jack rips his jacket off, his hands scrunching the black material, looking for something. There’s a flash at his collar from the golden bee pin he wears, but that’s not what Jack’s trying to find. From a hidden, inner pocket, he pulls out an old-fashioned pocket watch.
I gasp. “That—!” I glance up at the holographic projection of Dad standing mutely beside Jack. But before I can finish the sentence—That watch belonged to Dad!—Jack throws it on the ground and stomps on it with all his weight. The watch crunches, and the hologram of Dad disappears.
“Why would you do that?!” I scream, dropping to my knees and picking up the bent and broken watch face. “That was my father’s!” This was an antique, passed down for generations from father to son in my family. Dad gave to it to me a year or so before he died, after Mom seemed cured and he was promoted to work directly in Triumph Towers, researching bots and androids for the government. The engraving on the inside of the watch is still there, exactly as I knew it. P.K.D.S. The initials of my great-something grandfather.
Jack swoops down and picks up a cracked silver-colored bead from the shattered remains of the watch. “Well, Dr. Philip didn’t put a tracker in it, that’s for damn sure!” He holds the tiny object out to me, glowering.
“How did you even get this watch?” I ask quietly, staring down at the broken pieces.
Jack stands abruptly, knocking the watch face out of my hand and dropping the metallic bead into my palm. “A tracker. You put a tracker on me.”
“I didn’t do this,” I say in an even monotone. I’m barely able to control my rage. I have so few things that are my father’s, just his, and seeing the broken watch is like seeing a memory of him smashed against the dirty stone floor. “How did you get my father’s watch?”
“Because you gave it to me!” Jack roars. I flinch, and he takes a step back, breathing deeply. His eyes search mine, full of scorching rage. “Are they coming?” he asks.
“Wh-who?” I stutter.
“The M.P.s. The cops. Did you lead them here with your stupid little tracker program?” He steps around me, flinging open the door and looking out into the bright sunlight.
“I didn’t call anyone,” I say. My voice is stronger with each word. “No one followed me. And I didn’t do that. I didn’t put a tracker in the watch. And I didn’t give it to you.”
“What are you even doing here then?” Jack says. His voice is low now, and it sounds almost disappointed. Defeated. “I know you hate me, Ella, but why are torturing me?”
“Torturing? Hate you?” I gape at him. “I don’t even know you!”
Jack’s face falls into an emotionless mask. “I’m beginning to think that might be true.”
“Of course it’s true!” I shout. “I never even saw you before yesterday! So I couldn’t have put a tracker on you—and I’m still waiting to hear how you stole my father’s watch!”
The color drains from Jack’s face. He just stares at me, speechless.
“What?” I demand.
“You remember Akilah, though, right?”
My hand goes instinctively to my necklace, the fortune cookie locket with a digi file of Akilah and me inside. She has a matching one.
Jack runs his fingers through his hair. “I’ve heard that the government uses subliminal messaging to control people,” he mutters. He casts an appraising eye on me. “But this is so specific…”
“How do you know Akilah?” I demand again. I don’t care what kind of mind games he’s playing at; I want answers.
Jack doesn’t speak for a moment. He looks as if he’s carefully choosing his words. “Akilah and I were in the same unit.”
&nbs
p; “She’s never mentioned you.”
“She probably didn’t think you wanted to hear about me.”
I rake my eyes over him. “Obviously not.”
“No—I mean—” Jack growls in frustration.
“Let’s just clear this up right now,” I snap. I raise my wrist, my fingers skimming across the surface of my cuff.
“What are you doing?” Jack demands.
“Calling Akilah. If she knows you, she can tell me.”
“No—don’t!” he tries to knock my hand away.
I narrow my eyes. My fingers stay on my cuff—not on Akilah’s contact info, but on the police’s.
Jack’s lips curl up, but it’s not a smile. It’s a grimace. There’s a look in his eyes that is far sadder than I’ve ever seen before. My stomach drops, and dread rises up within me. A warning flashes through my head, and I’m suddenly reminded of the day my dad came into my bedroom to tell me that Mom had Hebb’s Disease.
“Akilah’s dead,” Jack says, and it’s not just the words that kill me, but the tone, full of sympathy and sorrow.
nineteen
The air leaves my body in one whoosh, and I stagger back away from Jack as if he’d hit me. But then I shake my head, clearing the confusing thoughts.
“I just talked to her, less than an hour ago,” I say.
“You really didn’t,” Jack says in a terrible low monotone.
I scrutinize his face, but even though he’s wearing an emotionless mask now, there is truth in his eyes, grief. His shoulders are slouched in defeat. He’s got the build of a soldier boy—athletically large, quick reflexes, a certain set of his jaw that indicates he’s seen more than he should.
But no matter how much he appears to believe what he’s saying, he’s obviously lying. Or crazy. Or both.
I glance down at his arm, and notice the way he tugs the sleeve of his jacket over his wrist. I remember that he’s missing his cuff.
“You’re off the grid,” I say. “You’re on the run. You… you deserted the military didn’t you?” This fully supports my theory that he’s tied in with the terrorist rebels Representative Belles is getting mixed up with, and I grope behind me for the doorknob, feeling the cool metal solid beneath my fingers, ready to run if I need to.
