Lifel1k3

I don’t know what it was for you, but for me, it was real.

  And you’re the girl who made me real.

  BLOOD SCAN COMPLETED. IDENTITY: UNKNOWN.

  You look wonderful for a dead girl.

  You are polluted. You and all your kind.

  Lies.

  It’s you, me, Crick and Kaiser. No matter what.

  Stronger together, together forever. Right?

  Upon lies.

  So just be straight with me from now on, okay?

  That’s all I’m asking.

  I’d never do anything to hurt you.

  I tried to tell you so many times. . . .

  I’m so sorry.

  What has he been telling you?

  Upon lies.

  I was made for you.

  All I am.

  All I do,

  I do for you.

  And I cup his cheeks and draw him back up to look at me, and as we sink toward another long, aching kiss, just before our lips meet, he whispers it.

  He whispers my name.

  “Ana . . .”

  No.

  No, my name is . . .

  . . . What

  is

  my

  name?

  What do you think, Princess?

  Father’s going to save us.

  He’s going to save the world one day.

  Of all the mistakes I made, I think you were my favorite.

  And we still have so much work to do.

  Most people don’t get a happy ending in real life.

  Rage bubbling up and spilling over her lips as she raised her hand and screamed.

  And screamed.

  AND SCREAMED.

  Pinocchio wouldn’t ever get to be a real boy if his story were actually true.

  “No,” Raphael says softly. “No, he wouldn’t.”

  I love you, Ana.

  Oh, you poor girl.

  You poor, poor girl . . .

  This is not my life.

  This is not my home.

  I am not me.

  A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

  YOUR BODY IS NOT YOUR OWN.

  A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

  YOUR MIND IS NOT YOUR OWN.

  A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

  YOUR LIFE IS NOT YOUR OWN.

  What has he been telling you?

  1.32

  LIAR

  A not-girl knelt at the heart of a broken tower. Staring at the not-blood on her hands. Replaying the not-life she hadn’t lived over and over in her mind. The not-truths that had brought her here, ringing in her skull like footfalls at a funeral march.

  Not her life.

  Not her home.

  Not her at all.

  The not-girl gritted her teeth and looked to the hidden sky, blood-soaked blond hanging about her eyes. Her optic was itching, hateful tears waiting in the wings. Sorrow and rage for a life lost. A life she’d never even lived. A life foisted upon her, pushed into her, empty stare and empty lungs and she was only a dead girl, a puppet, a marionette with severed strings ever dancing to a grieving father’s tune, a construct, a thing just like the rest of them, a life spent on her knees, a life spent drenched in lie after lie after lie and this was the last of them, THIS WAS THE LAST.

  So who would she be now?

  Nothing they’d wanted her to be, that much was certain.

  More human than human than human than human than . . .

  She closed her eyes. Took a deep, shuddering breath. And she grasped her sorrow by the throat and set it aflame with her rage. She watched it burn. She let it warm her. Let it scorch her. Let it take the girl she’d been and never been at all and swallow the Ana inside her whole. Ashes in her mouth. Goose bumps on her skin.

  Unmaking herself and beginning again.

  Washed clean in the cinders.

  But your friends . . .

  Were never my friends.

  But your life . . .

  Was never my life.

  My body was not my own.

  My mind was not my own.

  My life was not my own.

  “I’m just like them,” she whispered.

  “Ana . . .”

  “That’s not my name.”

  “Evie, please . . .”

  “I’m not your mistress.”

  “Ana,” Ezekiel pleaded.

  “. . . Get out.”

  “. . . What?”

  She turned on the almost-boy. The almost-boy she’d only been told she loved.

  She’d never had a choice.

  But even slaves have a choice.

  Rising to her feet. Dragging blood-soaked blond from her eyes. Hands in fists.

  “Get. Out.”

  “Ana, I love you. . . .”

  “That’s not my name!” she yelled. “I’m not her! I never was! I’m not the Ana you loved or who loved you back. I’m not the princess trapped in her tower or the girl you spent your life searching for or any of it! I’m not! She’s been dead and buried for two years!”

  “INCORRECT.”

  The quartet all looked toward that spinning angel, etched in flickering light.

  “I’ve known you for all of five minutes,” Cricket growled, “and I don’t like anything about you. You just told us Ana Monrova was dead.”

  “ERRONEOUS. I STATED ANA MONROVA SUFFERED BRAIN DEATH AFTER THE EXPLOSION THAT DESTROYED GRACE. I ALSO SAID HER FATHER MAINTAINED HER VITALS VIA LIFE SUPPORT. AT NO POINT DID I STATE ANA MONROVA WAS ACTUALLY DECEASED. LET ALONE BURIED.”

  “You’re saying she’s still alive?” Ezekiel’s eyes were wide. “Where is she?”

  “I WILL NOT TELL YOU. MY PRIORITY IS TO PROTECT NICHOLAS MONROVA AND HIS FAMILY. INFORMING YOU OF ANA’S WHEREABOUTS PLACES HER IN UNNECESSARY JEOPARDY.”

  “I tried to save Nicholas Monrova and his family, Myriad.”

  “AND YOU FAILED, EZEKIEL.”

  Ezekiel bristled with anger, his voice soft and dangerous. “Where is she?”

  “NOT HERE.”

  “And you shouldn’t be here, either,” the not-girl said.

  “Damn right.” Cricket scooped Lemon up in one wrecking-ball fist. “It’s too dangerous for Lemon to stay here, like I said. The radiation will kill her if we wait around any longer. We have to go.”

  The not-girl stared at the big logika and nodded slowly.

  “Goodbye.”

  “. . . What do you mean, goodbye?”

  “I mean I’m not coming with you, Cricket.”

  “Ana, you can’t stay here.”

  “My name isn’t Ana, Ezekiel.” The flames inside her seethed, burning hotter and brighter by the second. The girl she never was only ashes on the wind. “And don’t tell me what I can’t do. For the first time in my life, I can do whatever I want.”

  “And you want to stay here?”

  “I want . . .”

  The not-girl clenched her jaw. Shook her head. Trying to grasp one thought, one feeling, one word that might be her own.

  Realizing she might not have any at all.

  Realizing the only person who could change that was her.

  An algorithm of flesh and bone, trying to predict what a dead girl would have done.

  No more.

  “I want to learn who I am,” she declared. “And I don’t think you can teach me.”

  “Ana, I—”

  “I’m not who you want me to be, Ezekiel.”

  She glanced at the coin slot in his chest.

  The mark of his loyalty.

  The mark of his fealty.

  “And somehow I don’t think you’re who I want to be, either.”

  “Riotgrrl . . .”

  She glanced up at the girl cradled in the logika’s arms. “Goodbye, Lemon.”

  The girl shook her head, tears in
her eyes. “Riotgrrl, I’m not leaving you.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Stronger together, remember?” The tears spilled down Lemon’s cheeks, her voice cracking. “Together forever.”

  “Not forever. Not anymore.”

  “Riotg—”

  “You’ll die if you stay here, Lemon. And Cricket isn’t forced to look after me anymore. He knows I’m not human. So he doesn’t get to choose. He has to choose you.”

  She glanced at the ruined Goliaths behind her, then back up at the big logika’s eyes. His heart was relays and chips and processors. His optics were made of plastic. And she could still see the agony in them.

  “I . . .”

  “You were a good friend, Cricket.” The not-girl smiled sadly. “Take care of yourself.”

  The bot shook his head. “. . . I’m sorry. I have to.”

  “I know.”

  The big bot steeled himself. It was like watching him tearing himself in two. His feelings at war with his code. He loved her. He’d always loved her. But he’d been programmed to. And despite what he’d said in the ministry, that same programming was at war with him now. Forcing him to leave her behind, no matter how he felt. His body was not his own. His mind was not his own. His life was not his own.

  Maybe one day, little brother.

  Cricket’s shoulders slumped. Trembling with the strain of it. Hating every second of it. But finally, he turned and began trudging toward the exit, head hung low. Lemon bucked in his grip, trying to break loose, pounding her fists against his hull.

  “No, Crick, let me go!”

  Cricket sighed. “A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.”

  “Cricket, I’m ordering you, put me down!” Lemon yelled.

  “A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law,” he replied.

  “Don’t make me hurt you, Cricket! I don’t want to hurt you!”

  “A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.”

  “No, I want to stay! I want to stay!” Lemon turned tear-filled eyes on the not-girl who had been her bestest, stretching out her hand as she screamed. “Evie!”

  “Goodbye,” the not-girl whispered.

  The logika stomped away, Lemon’s cries fading as he crossed the bridge, strode out from the broken tower’s broken heart. She watched them go, feeling the girl she’d never been burning inside her. Ashes falling like feathers from a sky full of angels with broken wings.

  And when they were out of sight, she turned to the almost-boy.

  The boy she’d never loved.

  The boy she’d never even known.

  He was watching her with eyes the color of a pre-Fall sky, clouded with hurt. She could see the war inside him, too. The remnants of who he’d thought she’d been struggling with the reality of who she actually was.

  But if she didn’t know, how could he?

  How could he?

  “I’m not leaving you here,” he said.

  “And why not?”

  “Because I love you.”

  “Two years you searched,” she said. “Remember? Two years of empty wastes and endless roads. Of not knowing if you’d ever see her again. And when the ash rose up to choke you, it was thoughts of her that helped you breathe. When the night seemed never-ending, it was dreams of her that helped you sleep. Her. And only her.”

  A soft sigh.

  “Not me.”

  The not-girl glanced back at Myriad, watching with its glowing blue eye.

  “She’s out there somewhere, Ezekiel. Her father didn’t let her die. Gnosis had holdings all over the map. I’m sure you know where to find more than a few. But she’s not here.” The not-girl shook her head. “There’s nothing for you here.”

  She heard a soft moan and looked toward Faith’s broken body. The lifelike had recovered at least partially from Cricket’s savage beating, her shattered bones starting to mend. Like a newborn, she stirred, fingers twitching, lungs rasping. It wouldn’t be long before she was moving again. And after that . . .

  “I don’t think you want to be here when they start getting back up,” she warned. “And I don’t think you want Gabriel finding Ana first. He’s going to look for her, you know. And when he finds her . . .”

  Ezekiel tensed at that. Eyes narrowing a fraction at the implied threat. He stared at her hard, an unspoken question on his lips. She could see his fear that he already knew the answer. He looked to the door Lemon and Cricket had left by. Agony shining in his gaze as he turned back to the not-girl he’d never loved.

  “This isn’t over,” he said.

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “No, it really isn’t. But next time we meet?” She raised her hand to his face, her touch as gentle as first kisses. “I don’t think it’s going to turn out the way you want it to.”

  She let her hand fall away. Her feelings along with it. Letting the rage wash her clean. He lingered a moment longer. Perhaps thinking of a burning garden. Of a paradise lost. And then he turned, limping across the battered bridge, into the sunlight waiting beyond. She watched him go, forcing himself with every step. She wondered if this was the finale he’d expected. If he’d ever get the ending he wanted. If he’d ever be a real boy.

  “Goodbye,” she whispered. “My beautiful liar.”

  And he was gone.

  CODA

  He woke in darkness.

  The cold-copper taste of old blood on his lips. The bird-brittle crack of broken bones beneath his skin. Emergency lighting bathed the walls the color of bleeding, and he groaned, trying to rise to his feet.

  He’d fallen, he remembered. So very far.

  “Gabriel.”

  He looked up and saw her, silhouetted against the light. An angel, beautiful and bright, the burning globe behind her framing a halo of blond about her head. His bleeding heart surged inside his broken chest, and for a moment, he thought it had all been a dream. That he’d never lost her. That she was here with him now.

  He spoke, his voice full of terrible love and terrible fear.

  “. . . Grace?”

  She leaned in closer, offering her hand. And he saw her face then. Saw his mistake. Saw a dead girl, sure and true. But not the one he dreamed of. She was tall, a little gangly, boots too big and cargos too tight. Sun-bleached blond hair was undercut into a tangled fauxhawk. Her sharp cheekbones were smudged with blood and dirt, illuminated by the flare of the emergency globes.

  Her right eye socket was empty, a single bloody tear crawling down her cheek. The side of her head was matted with red, her fingers, too, as if she’d torn something out of her skull. He could see the glint of metallic bone under her skin, and he realized, breath catching in his throat, that the hole was slowly knitting closed.

  It was just about the right shape for a nasty exit wound.

  “You never lied to me, Gabriel,” she said. “For all your faults, you never did that.”

  “Ana?” he asked, bewildered.

  “No, brother,” she replied.

  Her smile was a razor blade.

  “My name is Eve.”

  She took his hand in hers.

  “And we have so much work to do.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would not be what it is without the following astonishing droogs:

  My wonderful and courageous editor, Melanie Nolan. Your insight and faith never cease to amaze me. I’ll make a sci-fi nerd of you yet.

  My band of fearless beta readers: Laini Taylor, Lindsay “LT” Ribar, Caitie Flum, and, especially, my partner in crime, Amie Kaufman, who has been bugging me to finish this book since she read the first chapters back in 2013. Long and slightly uncomfortable hugs must also go to Beth Revis, Marie Lu, and Kiersten White for reading it early and saying nice things about it. I love you guys. Thank you thank you thank you.

  Many thanks to my c
rew at Random House/Knopf—Barbara Marcus, Judith Haut, Sam Im, Karen Greenberg, Ray Shappell, John Adamo, Aisha Cloud, Alison Kolani, Artie Bennett, Amy Schroeder, Alison Impey, Stephanie Moss, Ken Crossland, Jenny Brown, and everyone else who works so tirelessly behind the scenes. Huge props must also go to Anna McFarlane, Radhiah Chowdhury, Jessica Seaborn, Kristy Rizzo, Victoria Brown, Eva Mills, and all the crew at my Australian publishers, Allen & Unwin, for making me feel so at home, and to all my publishers around the world.

  My secret agents, Josh and Tracey from Adams Lit. Thank you for breaking all the right thumbs and inviting me into your home and your literary family. Keep pounding!

  All the bookstagrammers, bloggers, and vloggers across the globe who’ve supported my work—there are far too many of you folks to name, but please understand I see all you do for me. For the fan art and the reviews, the pimping and the tattoos (!!!), I am so grateful for your passion, energy, and love. You turn my flint-black heart into flint-black goo.

  The artists who inspire me, particularly in the creation of this beast—Bill Hicks (RIP, see you down in Arizona Bay), Sam Carter, Tom Searle (RIP) and Architects, Maynard James Keenan and Tool, Oli and BMTH, Chino and the ’Tones, Burton and FF, Ian and the ’Vool, Matt and A7X (RIP Rev), Ludovico Einaudi, Al and Ministry, Trent and NIN, Marcus/Adrian and Northlane, Winston and PWD, Paul Watson, Jeff Hansen and the courageous crews at Sea Shepherd, William Gibson, Ray Kurzweil, Mike Ruppert, Scott Westerfeld, Cherie Priest, Jason Shawn Alexander, Lauren Beukes, Jamie Hewlett and Alan Martin, George Miller, Jenny Beavan, Mike Pondsmith, and Veronica Roth.

  My droogs among droogs—Marc, B-Money, Surly Jim, Rafe, Weez, Sam, my Throners and Conquistadors—thanks for getting me out of the goddamn house occasionally. Long and slightly uncomfortable hugs must also go to C. S. Pacat, for Thursdays.

  Big hugs to Tovo for the photography and the hooch.

  Eternal gratitude must also be given to the manufacturers of Red Bull and Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey—couldn’t have done it without you, kids.

  My family, so far away but always with me.

  And, of course, Amanda. I always save the best for last.