But that was never anything more than a fantasy, and now that fantasy is as dead as every friend I’ve ever had.
I will never see another face that looks just like mine.
Nothing will ever be okay again.
Trigger opens each door a crack, one at a time, to make sure no one’s approaching from the first floor of the Specialist Bureau or from outside. Then he pulls me into a hug. But that only makes me cry harder.
I cling to him. I don’t know how to stop, and he doesn’t seem to care that I’m getting tears and snot on the shoulder of his uniform jacket.
“Dahlia.”
He says my name three times before I’m able to take a step back and wipe my face with both hands. His face looks stretched out of shape, viewed through the tears still filling my eyes.
“We need to go.” He brushes a strand of hair back from my face, where it was plastered to my skin with either tears or snot or both. “And now that you’re not crying, we may make it out of the city without being seen.”
“How?” Nothing has changed. The city gate will still be locked, and even if it isn’t also guarded, neither of us has the clearance to unlock it.
“There’s another way out of Lakeview, and as long as they don’t know I’m with you they won’t know to look for us there. So we have to hurry before they figure that out.”
The recall is over. Ford 45 will want to speak to Trigger. About me.
“Wait.” Everything is moving too fast. Whatever’s wrong with me got my sisters killed, and if I leave Lakeview without that information, I’ll never get it. “There’s something wrong with me, Trigger. You heard them. I’m an anomaly.”
“What I heard is that they haven’t found you yet, but now that they’ve used cadets to double the patrol, they will very, very soon. Come on.”
But I pull back on his hand, and he seems even less willing to let go of me than he is to stay in the stairwell.
“I’m different, Trigger.” That word has always felt ominous. Different is dangerous. Different is doomed. The recall of my entire genome has more than confirmed that. “No matter how much I look like Poppy and Sorrel and Violet, no matter how much I love them, I never really fit. I’ve been trying to deny that for a long time. Trying to pretend I don’t have thoughts I’m not supposed to have. That I don’t want things I’m not supposed to want. But whatever’s wrong with me cost my friends their lives, and I have to know what they died for. I have to know how I’m different. I have to know why I’m different. I can’t strike out into the wild forever without knowing.”
My undefined difference would haunt me, along with thousands of ghosts that wear my face.
“Why does it matter?” Trigger asks, and his voice is soft not just in volume but in tone. “You’re not different anymore, because there’s no one left for you to be different from. Now you are who you are. I like who you are. And if we get out of the city, you can be who you are for the rest of your life.”
Everything he’s saying is true. But…“I need to know what’s wrong with me and whether this was inevitable,” I say. “Were my identicals doomed because of what I am—something beyond my control—or because of what I’ve done? What you and I have done. We’re responsible for so much death, Trigger, and I need to know why this is happening. I need to know why I exist in the first place. If I am flawed. I need to know why the geneticist who designed me is on the run just like us.” I take a gulp of air. “I need to know how only one out of five thousand identical genomes became flawed, and why he would put that genome into production if he knew.”
“Your geneticist is on the run?” Trigger’s eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them. He’s starting to understand.
I nod. “His name is Wexler 42.”
“Maybe he didn’t know. That’s why he’s running. He’s figured out he made a terrible mistake and that he’ll have to pay for that.”
A terrible mistake? Blood drains from my face, and my cheeks feel cold. Trigger’s right. If I wasn’t a mistake, none of this would be happening. But the truth still stings.
“No. Wait.” He frowns. “That’s not what I meant. Wexler 42 made a mistake, obviously, but you’re not a mistake. In fact, you’re kind of a miracle.” His gaze intensifies, and I can almost believe him. “The girl who shouldn’t exist.” His grip tightens around my hand. “You said it yourself; you’ve always thought differently from the others. If you weren’t an anomaly, you probably wouldn’t have made it this far.”
“If I weren’t an anomaly, I wouldn’t have needed to. What if I’m sick?”
“What?” His furrowed brow tells me I’ve finally struck the right chord. “Why would you be sick?”
“Don’t they teach history in the Defense Academy? Genetic manipulation began as a way to prevent and eliminate inherited diseases and chromosomal abnormalities. What if whatever’s wrong with me is one of those? What if all the other genomes in my union got…scrubbed or cleaned or whatever, and they just missed one?”
“I don’t think that’s how it works, Dahlia. I think they’d have to put a disease into you for it to be there.” But he sounds far from sure.
“They’re not building genomes from scratch,” I explain. “They have to start with base material. There’s a vault of genes in the genetics lab. Geneticists start with a sample from the vault and alter it to make sure the people it will produce are healthy, hardy, and well suited to their place. Their union. If the starter genes have flaws, isn’t it possible that when they got to me, they just…missed something?”
“I don’t think so. Wouldn’t they scrub the sample, then clone it? So that they’re all the same? It’d be terribly inefficient to have to scrub each identical’s genes individually….”
“But Wexler 42 will know for sure,” I insist. “We have to find him. I have to talk to him before we leave.”
Trigger exhales slowly. “How long ago did he escape custody?”
There are no clocks in the stairwell, so I can only estimate. “Maybe five minutes before I did. So no more than about three hours ago. Why?”
“I think I know how he’ll try to get out of the city,” he says, staring at the exterior door as if he can see right through it. Visualizing his plan.
“How?” I wipe my face again, this time with the inside of the jacket I borrowed from Violet. For a second I feel bad about sullying it. Then I remember that she won’t need it anymore and I feel even worse. “Another small gate?”
“Not exactly. More like a special gate.”
“What makes it special?” My toe keeps tapping, and that small sound echoes up through the stairwell. Now that we’ve decided to go after Wexler, I am full of anxious energy and all out of patience.
“It’s only used by certain people, and only at certain times.”
What people? What times? How can I know so little about my own city? “How can we get to this special gate without being seen?”
“I have an idea.” He opens the exterior door again and peeks through the crack before turning back to me. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Trigger holds out his hand for me, and I take it as we slip through the doorway. Outside, the sun is finally starting to go down. Shadows are longer now, and I feel a little queasy when I notice that the shade cast by the Specialist Bureau stretches two-thirds of the way to the Defense Bureau. I know that’s where we’re headed before Trigger even turns in that direction.
I shake my head. “It’s too far,” I whisper.
“We can make it,” he insists just as softly. “Hold your hands behind your back again as if you’re still restrained. We’re going to march just like we did before, but this time we’ll be in the shadow of the building for most of the way.”
“What if we’re spotted?”
“I don’t think we will be. Look.” He points between the buildings at some distant point on the grounds, and I follow his finger to see a crowd gathered to watch the tail end of the caravan. “They’ll head back inside in a couple of minutes and we’l
l have lost our shot. Come on.”
Before I can argue or even truly think about the risk, he grabs my arm and begins marching with me in tow. I can do nothing without attracting attention except reprise my role from before.
Trigger’s form was designed for speed and strength. He moves quickly and I struggle to keep up. But he’s right. The rear of the Defense Academy is deserted except for a single black car parked next to the curb on the cruise strip.
“Whose is that?” It looks just like the one that was parked behind the dormitory half an hour ago.
And suddenly I understand. “That’s Ford 45’s car.”
Trigger’s jaw is clenched with determination.
“We can’t take his car! It won’t even start for us.” And if anyone other than the owner was to hold a wrist beneath the scanner to try to start it, the car doors would lock and the vehicle would deliver the would-be thief straight to Management headquarters to be arrested.
I remember thinking when I was a child how absurd that standard safety feature was. I couldn’t imagine that anyone would try to steal a car. That kind of behavior would expose one’s genome as being defective.
But that was before I met Trigger 17.
“We’re not going to start Ford’s car. He is.” Trigger heads for the vehicle, and when I don’t follow he grabs my hand and pulls me forward again. “We’ll just be along for the ride.”
“This is…crazy,” I whisper, glancing around as I follow him, certain we’re about to be caught. “You want to hitch a ride with the man who organized the slaughter of my entire genome?”
“Yes. He’s going to help us escape. I find the irony highly satisfying.” His grin swells, and I want to return it, but logic and caution keep getting in the way.
“What if he sees us?” I ask as Trigger pulls open the rear door. Ford 45 has been issued a vehicle that has three rows of seats and will hold eight people. He must be very important indeed.
“He won’t even look into the back of the car. Men like Ford 45 rarely take precautions, because they don’t have to. Clean clothes show up in his drawer every morning, and there’s always food ready to eat at mealtimes. His showers are always hot, and his room is always clean.”
“That’s true for all of us.” Because everyone has a role to fill. We don’t see the people who wash our clothes and serve our meals, just like no one sees the hydroponic gardeners who grow our food.
“It’s not like that in the wild.” Trigger folds the middle row of seats forward and gestures for me to climb over it into the last row. “Or in battle.”
Before I can ask whether he’s actually been in battle, he climbs in after me. Suddenly we’re pressed together on the rear floorboard and all I can think about is how much of his body is touching mine. Dark windows have turned the back of the vehicle into a pool of shadows, and we are suspended in them. Alone together.
Somehow this feels even more intimate and daring than our moments in the equipment shed.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I am whispering, because the darkness seems to demand it.
“Do what?” Trigger whispers, and I wonder if that’s because I whispered first or because the shadows feel delicate to him also. As if too much sound will raise the lights and expose us.
“Run. Escape. You could go back to the dorm right now and tell them you left because you wanted to help with the search. No one will ever know you helped me.”
“They’ll see you on the security footage eventually,” he points out, and I can feel his breath on my cheek with each word. It’s a feather of a touch, yet it feels somehow solid. Important. “Besides, we’ve already been linked through the original arrest record.”
“You could tell them you told me to turn myself in. I could hit you on the head so they’d believe I knocked you unconscious.”
Trigger chuckles. “They wouldn’t believe that even if you were a Special Forces cadet.”
“They might,” I protest, unable to filter irritation from my voice. “I’ve become dangerous and unpredictable of late, in case you haven’t heard.”
His chuckle sounds deeper. More intimate somehow. “I’ve heard. But if a five-foot-two, one-hundred-ten-pound gardener could knock me unconscious with nothing but her bare fists, I’d deserve to lose my braid.”
My eyes widen, but I’m not sure he can see that in the deep shadows. “How do you know my physical dimensions?”
“Special Forces. I’m trained to assess any potential opponent’s physical strengths at a glance to better defend myself.”
“So? Assess me.”
The vehicle rocks slightly as Trigger settles deeper onto the floorboard, and I hope no one outside has noticed the movement. “Your fingers are nimble and you have excellent fine motor skills. However, your arms are less physically developed than your lower body. That’s because you do frequent light lifting and occasional moderate lifting as a part of your primary duty to the city, and you lift with your legs. Your physical recreation consists mostly of team sports concentrating in cardiovascular fitness. A lot of running, like relays and soccer.”
“So what am I best suited for?”
“Gardening,” Trigger says, and I scowl into the darkness at him.
“I mean, what kind of…battle? How much damage could I do in a fight?”
“Against a soldier? Very little. You might get in a lucky kick or two, but your upper body is too weak to pack much of a punch or break someone’s hold, and you’re too slow to specialize in any of the martial arts that don’t require much in the way of size. That can all be fixed, though.”
“It can?”
He shrugs. “Somewhat, anyway. You’ll never be an extraordinary fighter, because you were designed to grow plants rather than muscles. But your frame is straight and solid, and you could support much more muscle than you currently have. So yeah, you could be taught to defend yourself.”
“I—”
Trigger’s hand covers my mouth, cutting off my question, and before I can recover from the surprise I hear what he’s already heard. Footsteps—boots on concrete. And a voice that is more than familiar after the discussion we overheard on the twelfth floor.
“—want her found within the hour,” Ford 45 says. The car rocks around us as he opens the front left door and daylight falls over the interior. We are shielded from the light by the seat backs in front of us, but if either Ford or the soldier he’s talking to looks through the rear window, he will see us. “Ping me immediately when you have her. You have my direct contact?”
Through the tinted glass, I see the other man nod. The name on his uniform is Calibre 32.
Ford closes the door and I peek between the seats to see him holding his wrist beneath the sensor built into the dashboard. The engine hums to life and the car vibrates around us. Ford leans his seat back and pulls a small tablet from his inner suit pocket. “The Administrator’s mansion,” he says as he begins tapping and swiping his way through a series of messages I can’t read.
The car rolls forward smoothly, following the cruise strip painted onto the road, and I rock with the motion, surprised when my stomach seems to lag behind the rest of my body for a second. I’ve never been in a vehicle before. In fact, I rarely even see cars, because the training ward is populated mostly by children and adolescents, who lack the authority to start a CityCar.
Not that we’d have anywhere to go if we could start one.
The screen built into the dashboard shows the default route as a highlighted line through a two-dimensional map of the city. I stare at it for as long as I dare, fascinated, but Ford doesn’t even glance at it. He’s already lost in his leadership duties.
As the private vehicle rounds the dormitory and rolls onto the main road, daylight falls on Trigger’s face and I realize that he isn’t terrified by Ford’s destination as I am. Instead he looks relieved. He wants to go to the Administrator’s mansion.
And somehow he knew that’s exactly where Ford 45 would take us.
I stare out the window over Trigger’s head as familiar buildings steadily march past at an unfamiliar angle. I’ve never seen them like this. So tall and…fleeting.
A chime rings through the vehicle and I flinch, startled by the sudden sound. The dashboard screen flashes, and the map of our route disappears to reveal a message reading Incoming communication request.
“Accept,” Ford 45 says.
The screen flashes again and I catch a glimpse of a lightly lined female face and graying hair pulled back into a Management-style bun as I duck back behind the seat, my heart pounding in fear.
Trigger’s eyes are wide. Were you seen? his expression seems to demand.
I shake my head. And hope I’m right.
“Administrator,” Ford 45 says. “I’m on my way—”
“Where is she?” the Administrator demands.
My throat feels tight. They’re talking about me.
“I believe we’re closing in on her—”
“You believe? I want to hear what you know. Do you know where she is?”
“No, ma’am. I’m on my way to the mansion, then I’m headed back to the Defense Academy to question the cadet. I—”
“Ford 45, that girl represents the greatest security threat Lakeview has ever seen.” The Administrator’s declaration sends chills across my skin.
“But she’s just a gardener,” Ford says, echoing my own thoughts. “What’s so dangerous about a defective gard—”
“She cannot escape the city. What about the geneticist?”
“Wexler 42. He’s still missing. His lab is studying the genome, trying to figure out what happened with Dahlia 16, but the whole thing is very strange, ma’am. They can’t find any of the DNA assembly records and work logs for the genome in question.”
During the Administrator’s brief silence, I can hear my own heartbeat.