Hennessy is still watching me in concern. “Is this about your parents?”
“Parents?” I want to laugh at the first joke I’ve been able to clearly recognize all evening, but he beats me to it.
“You know, the tight-fisted bastard and stone-cold bitch who birthed and raised you but forced you to sneak out to attend the party of the year? Or are they dead to you as a result of such brutal social injustice?”
Parents. It’s an archaic general descriptor for a set of caregivers, typically a father who physically sired children and a mother who physically incubated and gave birth to them in a messy, bloody, dangerous procedure.
Centuries ago.
When the world was different.
Yet Hennessy isn’t laughing anymore. He’s using the term as if it has current relevance. As if I came not from an incubator in a lab but from inside a woman. As if I belong not to a bureau, or a division, or even a city, but to a pair of individuals who conceived me with bodily fluids. But that’s not possible. That kind of messy genetic transfer isn’t done anymore.
Is it?
My head spins as I stare around the room.
Is that how they get so many individuals? Are people in Waverly’s city not designed by geneticists and grown in incubators? Are they not cared for by nannies, then dormitory floor conservators? Is Waverly’s city populated entirely by individuals?
How can they have such advanced food preparation techniques and clothing design and face-enhancing paint yet have mastered so little of the basic technology that keeps a city functioning at maximum capacity and efficiency?
How can they populate their academies, if every citizen requires different considerations and accommodations? If they aren’t all designed to specifically fulfill the needs of the city they serve?
Do they serve their city at all?
From our basic geography unit, I know approximately where all the neighboring cities are. Mountainside, Riverbend, Oceanbay, Valleybrook. But I don’t know which of them is the anomalous metropolis where people are conceived rather than designed and born rather than removed from incubation. Nor do I understand why the Administrator would host a party for the children of such a city.
“Waverly?”
“I’m fine,” I assure Hennessy, hoping to rid him of the concern lining his features, which is sure to evolve into suspicion if I keep saying and doing the wrong things.
Something beeps from my left, and I drag my gaze away from Trigger to see that Hennessy has pulled a small tablet from his pocket. A very small tablet, no longer than his hand. He taps on an icon, then reads a couple of sentences of a ping someone has sent him.
“My driver says our car is lined up out front with all the others and Margo’s trunk is being loaded. We’ll be leaving in about ten minutes.”
Panic burns like fire surging through my veins. When the guests have all gone, there will be no reason for Waverly to remain. My disguise will expire with this party.
He misinterprets my fear. “You can’t send for your car, can you? Because you snuck in. Let me take you and your guard home.”
Home. A brand-new fear fires through me. I can’t go to Waverly’s home, where it will become immediately obvious that there are two of us.
Yet I can’t stay here either. But if Hennessy’s car gets me out of Lakeview…
“Yes! Thank you.”
He stands and offers me his hand. “Dance with me once, before we go? We can’t take pictures, since you’re not supposed to be here, but…”
I’ve seen thousands of photographs of plants in every possible stage of growth in class, but I’m not sure how one would “take” a picture, or what that has to do with dancing.
What I am sure of is that I don’t know how to dance. I can hardly even walk in these shoes. But I take his hand and stand, because I can’t imagine he would ask Waverly in the first place if he didn’t think she would accept.
If I weren’t afraid it would draw even more attention my way, I would just trip and fake a twisted ankle. Or actually twist my ankle. Though that would add an extra layer of difficulty to everything when Trigger and I flee into the wild after the party.
I glance back at him as Hennessy leads me toward the center of the room, and my “private security” is still watching me with his jaw clenched. He doesn’t want me to dance with Hennessy. I don’t want to dance with Hennessy. I take a deep breath, ready to let my insanely high left heel slip out from under me, when suddenly the heavy double doors at the end of the room fly open.
At least two dozen identical soldiers pour inside from the hallway and the music screeches to a halt. Couples go still and groups rise, startled, from clusters of furniture. Shocked silence stretches across the huge room. Everyone stares at the soldiers, waiting for an explanation for the interruption.
The soldiers stare back without breaking their formation or even turning their heads. Their eyes are as wide as their posture is stiff. They look as astonished as I’ve been since the moment I entered the room.
A man pushes his way between the soldiers, and I suck in a startled breath when I recognize both his face and the name tag pinned to his black suit. Ford 45 scans the sea of faces without settling on any of them. He does not seem surprised that the partygoers are not identicals.
“Please remain calm!” he orders. But every muscle in my body demands that I flee. “These soldiers only need a minute of your time. Then you’ll be free to carry on with your”—his disgusted expression roams the room again—“party.”
Panic tightens my grip on Hennessy’s hand. Trigger steps away from the wall, his hands open at his sides, ready for action, but I subtly wave him back. Ford 45 hasn’t noticed us. The last thing we want to do is draw his attention.
The soldiers spread out into a loose formation, and their commander marches through the ranks to stand next to Ford. “I apologize for the interruption,” he begins, addressing the crowd. “But—”
“You better have a hell of a lot more than an apology to offer!” Seren strides through the room as if he owns it, Sofia on his heels, and stops just feet from Ford and the commander. “This is my birthday party. You have no business here. Our mother is the Administrator, and she will—”
“Your mother is the one who sent us, sir,” the commander replies, and for a second the room seems to spin around me. “We’re here to search for fugitives.”
The Administrator is a mother?
Of every startling bit of information I’ve puzzled my way through in the past hour, this one is the most difficult to believe. The Administrator isn’t from another city, where they don’t understand the efficiency and superiority of the mass production of specially designed citizens, each suited to a specific purpose. She is from Lakeview. She is one of us. And like the rest of us, she was once one of many identicals cloned from a single genome.
How could such a woman have given birth? Why would she have given birth, when the training center is full of children of every age, learning every conceivable skill to be of service to the city?
With whom could she have conceived children?
Suddenly the Administrator’s mansion makes a certain kind of stunning sense. It is a family home—and the best-kept secret in Lakeview. No wonder Sofia’s guards were so eager to get her out of the training ward that day. She and Seren must be confined to the mansion to keep their existence a secret from the rest of the city.
Though Ford 45 obviously already knew about them.
“Are we in danger?” Sofia demands, drawing my attention back to the confrontation between the Administrator’s apparent children and the soldiers.
“No,” the commander insists, and I wonder whether he’s lying or truly doesn’t know how many of his men Trigger has already disabled. “But we’re under orders to check every square foot of the mansion.”
“Well then, carry on,” Seren says. “But make it quick.”
The soldiers spread out and begin looking under covered tables and lifting heavy pieces of fu
rniture. I slide behind Hennessy as subtly as I can, trying to keep my face out of their direct line of sight, but several soldiers walk right past me without even a glance.
They don’t expect to find the last remaining member of the year-sixteen trade labor division wearing a sparkly dress and dangerous shoes.
However, Trigger is still wearing his cadet uniform with his name embroidered on the front. Unlike Hennessy, the soldiers will not be fooled by his “disguise” if they see him.
“Are they looking for you?” Margo whispers as she steps up to my left side, too close for comfort.
“Of course they’re not looking for her!” Hennessy snaps. Then he turns to me, and the doubt in his eyes is as clear as the doubt in his voice. “Right? Your parents wouldn’t send the troops after you for sneaking out, would they?”
I shrug, terrified of exposing my ignorance. “They’ve already walked right past me several times.” I have to get Trigger out of here, though. Immediately. “But maybe I should go. I mean, I’m not supposed to be here, and…” I shrug, letting them draw their own conclusions.
“And if you get dragged home by the troops again, you’ll be grounded for the rest of your life,” Hennessy says.
I nod, wondering why Waverly was dragged home by the troops last time.
“Are you sure your new guard won’t rat you out?” Margo asks, and I notice that she sounds a little hopeful as she eyes Trigger.
“He’s very loyal.”
“Well, come on, then.” Hennessy grabs my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I’m not ready to go!” Margo whines as we head toward Trigger, who’s still watching us suspiciously from his position against the wall.
“The party’s practically over anyway,” her brother says with a glance over his shoulder.
“What’s going on?” Trigger asks when we’re close enough to hear him, his voice soft but distinct.
“The party’s over,” I tell him, and his gaze drops to my hand, which is enfolded in Hennessy’s. “They’re going to give us a ride home.”
“Home?” Trigger’s focus narrows on me, and I can see the unspoken warning in his eyes. But this is our only way out, and with so many soldiers searching the party room, anywhere in the world is preferable to where we are now.
On our way toward the exit, Margo and Sofia hug goodbye, and Hennessy and Seren thump each other on the back, which seems to be the male equivalent of a hug.
I hang back with Trigger, my heart hammering in my ears. How can we get out of the room without drawing attention?
“Where are we going?” he whispers.
“They’re going to whatever city Waverly lives in. But we could get out of the car in the wild, right? We don’t have to go the whole way.”
He gives me a slight shake of his head. “We won’t make it in the wild without supplies. Not this close to winter. We’ll ditch them and their car as soon as we’re in this other city and take what we need from there.”
Before I can argue or express any doubts—and I have several—Hennessy is waving us forward.
My heart threatens to burst through my rib cage when the soldier stationed at the door tries to stop us from leaving. But before I can panic or Trigger can try to disable him, Seren steps up, toe to toe with the soldier.
“I absolutely draw the line at the harassment of my guests. This is Hennessy and Margo Chapman, and Waverly Whitmore, of Mountainside. They’ve done nothing wrong, and now they wish to leave. So step the hell back.”
The soldier tries to argue, and Seren starts yelling.
“Come on!” Margo grabs my hand and tugs me through the doorway past the guard. Her eyes are bright with excitement at the prospect of an “escape,” and my use of her dress seems to have been forgiven.
Hennessy follows us out the door, but I can’t breathe until I see Trigger step into the hall behind him, unscathed. The soldier is too busy arguing with the Administrator’s son to notice.
“Why are we running?” Hennessy asks as I hobble down the hall as fast as I can go, trying to keep up with his sister. Who is evidently truly his sister.
“Because if he checks our names against the list, he’ll figure out that Waverly didn’t come in with the rest of us,” Margo explains, as if it should be obvious. “But if you want her to get taken into custody and delivered to her parents in time to be grounded for the rest of her life, we can go back…?” She slows to a walk and tosses her brother a teasing smile.
“We’re not going back,” Trigger insists, and they both glance at him in surprise. Evidently the personal guard isn’t supposed to participate in conversation.
“Agreed,” I say, drawing attention away from him.
“Then let’s go!” Margo bends to remove her shoes, then takes off at a jog, holding both of the stilt-like death traps in one hand. I follow her lead, and a second later we’re racing down the hall in the opposite direction of the back staircase Trigger and I took earlier.
We pass several more doors, then come to a wide, curving staircase overlooking a massive foyer. From this perspective, the Administrator’s mansion looks less like a house than a bureau, but as we race down the stairs I understand that in truth, it is both.
On the first floor, Margo shoves her way through a set of glass double doors and we spill out onto a wide front porch edged by a broadly curved set of stone steps. In the circular drive in front of the mansion is a long line of black cars sitting almost bumper to bumper along the cruise strip.
Though I don’t know how they can distinguish it from the others, Hennessy and Margo head straight for the second car in line, and when the man in the front seat sees them coming, he gets out to open a back door for them. Margo climbs onto the rear bench seat and scoots to make room. Hennessy gestures for me to go first, so I slide in, and he follows me.
Trigger gets into the front seat without being asked, and the man who held the door open circles the car to sit next to him.
This man—the driver?—holds his wrist beneath a scanner on the dashboard and the engine rumbles to life. I stare at his bar code and understand that even though I don’t recognize his genome, he is a clone.
But I have no idea why he is in Hennessy’s car or why it needs a driver.
The car parked in front of ours moves forward a couple of feet, and the man sitting in its front seat gives Hennessy’s driver a courteous wave.
“Main gate,” our driver says when the car prompts him for a destination, and the car gains speed as it rolls forward.
As we’re pulling out of the driveway and onto the road, following the cruise strip, I hear a commotion behind us. Adrenaline firing through my veins, I twist in my seat to see soldiers pouring out of the mansion, shouting for the driver to stop the car.
“Keep going,” Hennessy demands. “Faster.”
“Maximum speed,” the driver says, and the car lurches forward, racing down the road at a greater velocity than I’ve ever imagined. My heart pounds. My body seems stuck to the seat back.
Margo laughs as we leave the soldiers shouting after us.
“Now, that is how you make an exit!” Hennessy shouts, his eyes bright with excitement, and I flinch because his mouth is too close to my ear.
Margo turns to me, smiling in the intermittent glow of streetlights as we race past them. “Gotta hand it to you, Waverly. There’s never a dull moment when you’re involved. Even if you are a thieving bitch.”
She’s calling me names again, but this time she doesn’t seem angry. And I still have no idea how to respond. I glance into the front seat and find Trigger staring out his window, gripping the door handle with white knuckles.
I follow his gaze and find myself as transfixed as he is. The training ward is flying by on our right, and I’ve never seen it like this before. Though the buildings tower over the ward walls, they don’t look as tall from this distance. Most of the academies are dark at this time of night, but the dormitories are towers of light because no one has gone to bed yet except the
small children.
But in seconds the training ward is gone.
The administrative ward flies by in a blur of light; then…there is nothing but darkness. Empty fields, mown short.
Where’s the residential ward? The industrial ward? Where are all the people who live and work in Lakeview after graduation?
How could the city possibly be so small?
A flash of blue catches the corner of my eye and I turn to see a Defense vehicle speeding along behind us, flashing its lights.
“I apologize, sir,” the driver says, glancing in the rearview mirror as he begins to slow the vehicle. “But we’re being pulled over.”
Evidently the soldiers want us to stop the car.
“No!” I grip Hennessy’s hand as fear shoots up my spine.
“Ma’am, I have to stop,” the driver explains apologetically. “That’s the law here, just like it is in your city.”
Mountainside. The city my last remaining identical calls home.
“Please.” I turn to Hennessy, trying to ignore the look Trigger is giving me from the front seat.
Hennessy looks surprised by both the grip I have on his hand and the desperation in my voice. He glances through the rear window at the car following us. The soldiers turn on their siren, and its wail chases us just as frenetically as the lights.
Hennessy turns back to me, and his eyes light up again at the prospect of defying the soldiers. “Step on it,” he says, and before I can ask what that means, the driver responds.
“We’re already at maximum automatic speed, sir.”
“Then put it in manual.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver holds his wrist beneath the scanner and the interior of the car glows red as it scans his bar code. “Manual override,” he says. Something in the dashboard hums, and as we fly down the road, a panel slides back to reveal a thin leather-wrapped wheel sunken into the dash. The wheel slides forward and the driver grips it. His knee rises into sight from my position in the middle of the backseat; then he stomps on something.
The car shoots forward. He grips the wheel, and when he makes a minor adjustment the car swerves slightly. Our vehicle is no longer being guided by the cruise strips painted on the road. The driver is in total control of the car and everyone in it.