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  Someone buried deep within the crowd of spectators and news crews.

  A crop of thick, dark hair. A pair of liquid-chocolate eyes. Lips that would feel all too familiar against my own.

  “Zoom out,” I yell frantically at the screen.

  It obeys. And suddenly there he is. Barely visible amid the sea of onlookers. His usual easy smile is gone. Replaced by a somber look of determination.

  “Transfer to Lenses!”

  I sit up and watch the same frozen capture fill up my peripheral vision. My eyes dart downward, searching for the metadata. This capture is from two years ago. Almost to the day.

  “No,” I say aloud to the empty room.

  It can’t be him.

  It’s not possible. It’s not possible. It’s not possible.

  But now suddenly all I can think about is his face on that drive. That heartbreaking capture he buried for me to find.

  “Yes … always yes.”

  In a whisper, his name is out of my lips before I can stop it. Before I can hold back the tidal wave of emotion that comes crashing down with it. “Zen.”

  28

  RECALL

  I reverse the footage and replay it countless times. He’s only there for a moment. When Paddok raises her hand to block the hovercams. Then her arm is back at her side and his face is concealed again. The cams follow her to an awaiting MagCar and he’s never seen again.

  Common sense.

  That’s what Dr. A would tell me right now. Half of being a good scientist is knowing when to use common sense. And common sense tells me it can’t possibly be him.

  Lyzender Luman is in the year 2032. In Brooklyn, New York. I left him there with no transession gene and no way to get back here. Which means now, eighty-five years later, he is most likely dead. Or incredibly old.

  It has to be someone who looks like him.

  Remarkably like him.

  But my mind immediately flashes back to our Feed interview today. To the viewer who asked the question. Who called himself SZ1609.

  I’d finally managed to convince myself it wasn’t him. That it was just a strange, unnerving coincidence.

  But now …

  I don’t know.

  I pause the footage again and zoom into his dark, endless eyes.

  I used to stare into those eyes for hours.

  I used to watch him sleep.

  I used to count the minutes until he woke.

  That was back when I was weak and susceptible to temptation. When I was broken. Now what do I feel?

  I don’t let myself answer. Because it’s a moot question. It’s not him. It can’t possibly be.

  Lyzender Luman is gone. That’s not his face. Those aren’t his eyes. That’s not his mouth.

  His mouth …

  “You need to come with me.” The urgency in his voice cuts me so deep, I can’t look at him. I cast my gaze to the ground.

  “If I go with you,” I say, fear nearly choking the words, “will you kiss me again?”

  Suddenly, he is next to me. He places his warm, soft palm against my cheek. I close my eyes, memorizing the feel of his skin on my skin.

  “Every day.”

  The sickness starts to well up inside of me. The writhing desperation to escape my own body.

  Hastily, I blink the Feed capture from my Lenses, watching his frozen face disappear from my vision.

  But even after it dissolves, those eyes seem to linger. To cling like the stars that dance on the backs of your eyelids when you’re falling asleep.

  I blink again hard, willing them to leave. I can still see the blacks of his irises. The delicate curve of his long lashes.

  I run to the bathroom, activate the sink, and splash water into my eyes, watching my reflection blur and ripple before it settles back to normal again.

  His face is still there. His lips are still reaching for mine.

  I tear the Lenses from my eyes and toss them into the basin, running the water on full power. I watch the small, helpless domes fight to cling to the sides of the sink. But the riptide is too strong and finally they succumb to their fate, swirling away. Vanishing down the drain.

  I stare at the emptying sink for a long time. Much longer than I’m sure Dr. A would approve of.

  I’m already practicing the story I will tell Director Raze tomorrow morning when I ask him for a new pair of Lenses. I will say they accidentally popped out when I was washing my face. I will say I fought hard to catch them before they were washed away.

  And I will pray that my dangerous lie will never be caught.

  The Lenses were clearly defective. And defective things should be replaced.

  29

  SUMMONS

  The next day, we board a hyperloop for San Francisco. After that it’s Portland and Seattle. We do a Feed interview in each city, followed by a public appearance in a grand amphitheater or arena. Just as Killy promised, the hyperloop rides do get easier. My stomach adjusts, my brain learns how to blitz out.

  The protests are getting worse. It seems that in every city we stop, the angry crowds waiting for us are larger and more fearsome than the last. Our hotels are always vacant, entirely bought out by Diotech or a local sponsor. Director Raze brings in extra security—hired freelancers who help him secure the perimeters and guarantee our safety.

  Yet I never feel safe.

  I wonder if anyone else does.

  Conversely, our fans and supporters have grown in vast numbers, too. Every public appearance is sold out. Every local feedcast has millions of live viewers. When we exit the hyperloop stations, alongside the dissenters, there are also admirers. They call out our names, take our capture, hold up signs proclaiming their adoration.

  Sometimes it’s hard to remember that there are actually more people in this country who love us than hate us. Dane says the protesters are such an infinitesimal percentage of the total population. “Not even a blip on the radar in the grand scheme of things.”

  Maybe it’s because hate tends to resonate so much louder than love. And the ones who abhor us somehow always find a way to push themselves to the front. To make their infinitesimal percentage heard.

  After Seattle, we travel east, stopping in Salt Lake City and Denver before making our way south to Albuquerque, El Paso, Dallas, New Orleans, Nashville, Birmingham, and Atlanta.

  Kaelen and I have yet to talk about the incident in his hotel room in Los Angeles. Thus far, we’ve both managed to avoid the topic completely. It hasn’t affected our performance onstage, though. I still love him and I still have no trouble feedcasting it to the world. But he hasn’t asked me to come to his room again, even though Dane booked us adjoining suites at every single hotel, and I haven’t invited him to mine either.

  By day, we are inseparable. We hold hands, we kiss, we speak to each other in romantic Italian. By night, we are alone. I lie in bed and think about him in the next room. I listen for his breathing and try to match mine to his. It’s a way to stay connected to him even when we’re apart.

  I know I could ask him to sleep with me. Just lie next to me and hold me until the night is chased away. But I’m afraid to. I don’t know why. Afraid of the memories it will trigger? Memories of another boy who held me through another darkness? Or afraid of the emotions that always seem to come with those memories?

  Either way, that night in Los Angeles drove a wedge between Kaelen and me. A wedge that I’m not sure how to remove without the possibility of driving it deeper.

  Fortunately, the tour is going so well the rest of our group doesn’t seem to notice. Not even Dr. A. The Diotech stock continues to soar to new heights. The ExGen Collection ad runs constantly on the Feed. Our faces are on the cover of every DigiMag and DigiJournal in the country. And Dane says preorders for the genetic modifications have already started pouring in by the millions. According to him, it will be the most successful product launch in Diotech history.

  When we get back to the hotel in Atlanta, I murmur a good night to everyone and go stra
ight to my room. Physically, I feel fine—as always—but emotionally, I’m drained. Each day, I grow more and more tired of the act I’m expected to perform. The show Kaelen and I put on for the countless people who come to see us. At least, it’s a show for me. For Kaelen, it still appears to come naturally. Like he was born to be onstage. Born to be in front of an audience. His smiles for the cams seem so effortless. His interactions with the screaming fans feel so genuine.

  I, on the other hand, have to fake it. Although my body language and delivery are always impeccable (according to Dane), I never feel at ease in front of all those people, all those cams. Again, I wonder how Kaelen and I can be so different, when we’re supposedly cut from the same scientific cloth.

  I’ve gotten into the habit of retreating to my room the moment we return to the hotel and not resurfacing until the next morning. The thought of being on display after I finish being on display is too much to fathom.

  But tonight I’m barely in my room for five minutes when Dane knocks on the door.

  “Jans sent me to fetch you,” he says, and I swear I see a flash of apology in his eyes. Dane is the only one who calls Dr. A by his first name. Really, the only one who’s allowed to.

  “Fetch me? For what?”

  He looks like he’s considering answering the question but decides not to. “He told me to bring you to room 702.”

  I nod and reluctantly rise from the bed where I collapsed the minute I closed myself inside the room. There’s no use stalling or trying to negotiate for more time. Dane and I both know that when Dr. A summons you, you go.

  I slide my feet into my shoes and follow him into the hallway.

  Room 702 is only a few doors down. Dane moves to swipe his finger against the panel but stops and turns to face me.

  “Sera,” he begins cautiously. “What you saw the other night—between me and Dr. Alixter.”

  I shake my head. “It was none of my business. I’m sorry I intruded.”

  Dane lifts his hand in the air, as if to silence me. “No. I want to explain. Dr. Alixter and I … we have a … well, he’s a complicated man,” he finally finishes after much stumbling.

  I nod, waiting for him to continue.

  His eyes dart toward me, then to the ground. “He grew up in a family who didn’t accept him. His parents and brother were very religious people. They believed that science was the enemy. When he told them that he wanted to be a scientist, they essentially disowned him. He ran away and hasn’t spoken to them since.”

  I find myself wondering why he’s telling me this. “Is that why he hates religion so much?”

  Dane bites his lower lip. “For the most part, yes.”

  When it doesn’t seem as though he’s going to elaborate, I ask, “What does this have to do with the other night?”

  He blinks, as if he’s just remembering why he started this conversation. “Oh. I guess what I wanted to say is … seeing Pastor Peder on the Feed, it always puts him in a sour mood. Because it hits him a little too close to home, you know? You shouldn’t take it personally. He loves you. You and Kaelen. You are like the children he never had.”

  Well, Kaelen is, at least.

  Once again, I remain quiet, thinking he’ll add more. But he doesn’t.

  “How do you know all of this?” I ask.

  Dane smiles. It’s a reserved smile that barely scratches the surface. “I suppose when you work with someone for a long time, you pick up a few things.”

  “How long have you worked for Diotech?”

  He chuckles and rubs his chin. “Wow, I don’t even know. I was hired to manage the announcement of the synthetic meat line. And that was…” He pauses to think.

  “May 5, 2110,” I say, remembering the archived footage of the announcement that I watched the other night.

  He smiles. “You’re right. So that would make it—flux—more than seven years already.”

  I think back to that footage. How captivating and composed Dr. A was. How miserable and awkward Rio was. That is, until he lifted the little girl into his arms.

  Suddenly, I’m struck with a thought. I know it’s dangerous to ask questions about Rio, but maybe if I frame it right. If it seems to have come up organically …

  “You said Dr. A had a difficult childhood?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is that why he never had children of his own?”

  Dane clears his throat uncomfortably. “Probably.”

  “What about Rio? Did he have any kids?”

  “One,” Dane says, a sadness unexpectedly clouding his eyes. “A daughter. Sariana.”

  A shiver passes through me at the sound of that name again.

  Sariana.

  It feels like so much more than just a name. It feels like the whole sky.

  I swallow. “What happened to her?”

  “She died about three years ago. It was horrible. Rio was devastated. She was only eight.”

  “How?” I manage to squeeze out.

  Dane sighs, blinking out of his gloom. “Broken neck. She fell out of a tree in the Agricultural Sector.”

  My blood turns to ice. I don’t have to ask. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, I know which tree it is.

  The cottonwood. The one that I can’t bear to walk past. The one that screams at me when I turn around. Just the thought of those gnarled branches and that warped bark makes me shudder.

  “And they couldn’t save her?” I ask, my voice trembling.

  He shakes his head. “By the time they got to her it was too late.”

  I want to know more. So much more. But I have to tread carefully. Too many questions about the daughter of an enemy might raise suspicions.

  “Anyway,” Dane says, effectively ending the conversation, “best not to keep him waiting.”

  Dane turns and swipes his finger against the door panel of room 702. It slides open and all harrowing remnants of our previous conversation instantly vanish when I see what’s waiting inside.

  Or rather who is waiting inside.

  I have to work hard to hold back the gasp that threatens to escape.

  “Hi, Sera,” the man says in a friendly voice.

  But it’s not his cordialness that confuses me. He’s always been kind to me. In fact, he’s probably one of the nicest people on the compound. I just never expected to see him in our hotel. A thousand miles away from the compound.

  “Sevan.” I barely manage to squeeze his name through my constricting throat. “What are you doing here?”

  I don’t know why I even bother to ask. There’s only one reason Sevan Sidler, Diotech’s chief Memory Coder, would be here. But his answer still sends a tremor of dread through me.

  Sevan smiles innocuously. “Dr. A asked me to scan your memories.”

  30

  ABNORMAL

  Dr. A has been ordering random memory scans for both Kaelen and me for the past year. He says it’s his way of making sure we stay true to the Objective and, in my case, making sure my devious tendencies don’t resurface. The scans never bothered me before. They were supposed to be superfluous.

  I never had anything to hide before.

  Now, as Dane mutters a goodbye and Sevan leads me into his suite, I think about all of the things I’ve hidden in the past few days. All of the things that will undoubtedly show up on this scan.

  The cube drive that was buried in the dirt and that I’ve been stupid enough to carry with me on every stop of this tour. Lyzender’s distraught and heartbroken message vowing to find me. Seeing his face in the Feed footage. My inability to push that face from my mind.

  These are the kinds of things that should be reported. The kinds of things that threaten the Objective. Yet I deliberately kept them to myself. I chose to disobey.

  My legs tremble as I make my way farther inside room 702. Sevan has built a temporary memory lab in the dining room of the suite. It’s nowhere near as menacing as the real thing. Still, staring at those instruments—the computer terminal with the
special coding keyboard on the desk, the injector lying next to it, the chair with the synthosteel clamps—I feel a cold sweat trickle down the back of my neck.

  I also wonder why Dr. A ordered this scan in the middle of the tour. Has he had it planned from the beginning or does he suspect something? Did Kaelen get scanned, too? Or is it just me?

  Maybe Kaelen told Dr. A about my warped behavior that night in Los Angeles.

  My breathing grows shallow.

  Should I refuse?

  Should I ask to talk to Dr. A first?

  Maybe if I run to him now and confess everything, he’ll understand. He’ll forgive me.

  I chastise myself for being so foolish and naïve. Of course he won’t understand. Of course he won’t forgive me. I knowingly kept secrets from him. I knowingly deceived him. That’s unforgivable in his eyes.

  “How are you?” Sevan asks, seemingly oblivious to the terror ripping me apart. “How’s the tour been going?”

  Small talk.

  He’s making small talk like he always does. He has no idea what he’s about to find. What he’s going to have to report.

  “Fine,” I manage to utter as I try to keep my lips from trembling.

  He waits for me to say more and then releases a short laugh when I don’t. “Well, that’s not what I’ve heard.”

  “What did you hear?” I ask, panic flaring up.

  He gives me a strange look. “I’ve heard that it’s been far better than fine. Dane has transmitted nothing but glowing reports back to the compound. Apparently the world loves you two.”

  I relax somewhat but the relief is short-lived.

  “Shall we get started?” Sevan motions to the chair. With a deep surrendering sigh, I lower myself into it and place my arms on the armrests to activate the restraints. The thick synthosteel instantly clamps around my wrists, holding me in place.

  Since I’m never conscious during any of the scans, I don’t know if the clamps are there as a precautionary measure, or if people actually do struggle when their memories are being evaluated.