by Tania Hutley
I get dressed and find that all the clothes are snugs, even the underwear, so although they’re too big when I first put them on, the smart fabric is triggered by my body heat to shrink itself down until everything’s a perfect size. They’re insanely comfortable, clean and fresh-smelling. And the best part is, she hasn’t asked me to pay for them.
I could hug Doctor Gregory. Last time I had new clothes, or even something clean to put on, was so long ago I can’t remember. And now I’ve got so many clothes, I could change into fresh ones every day.
Most of my life I’ve felt like a rat at the bottom of a trash heap. Is this what it takes to make me feel human?
While the toothbrush’s buzzing over my teeth, I’m feeling so good I glance in the mirror, half-expecting my face to have been transformed with the rest of me. It has in a way — the bruises and sunburn have made me even uglier than usual. I flinch. Then bend over and rinse. Looking is always a mistake.
Doctor Gregory’s voice comes from outside. “Are you ready, Rayne?”
“Coming.”
She brushes off my thanks, beckoning me into the corridor. “Your room number is 401.” She swipes her band across the sensor beside the door. “Doctor Gregory. Authenticate.”
“Doctor Gregory.” The words come from the sensor.
“Authorize Rayne Walker.” She nods at me. “Swipe your band.”
As I lift Rayne’s band up to the sensor, I rack my brain for some kind of explanation to give her in case it doesn’t work. But the light glows green. I let out a relieved breath, and when I swipe again, the door opens and closes for me. All it’s doing is reading my ID chip.
Thank goodness nobody uses facial recognition for security anymore, since constant tweaking became routine for New Tritoners.
The doctor leads me down the hall. “These five doors are the other competitors’ rooms. That one is your rec room, kitchen, and dining.” She winks. “You won’t get breakfast in bed every day, you know.”
“But that’s the only reason I came.”
She chuckles, so my nervous joke must have come out sounding as casual as I hoped. But this place is unbelievable. Is this how floaters live?
“Some functions of your band have been blocked,” she says. “You won’t be able to transfer data to anyone outside the building, and your band won’t work at all in the training room. It’s a security measure.”
That’s good. The less we’re supposed to be able to use our bands, the better.
I’m a little sore, especially my torso, where my cracked ribs must still be healing. But I try to keep up as we head down the long corridor. There are doors on both sides, most of them shut. Through the one or two that are open, I catch glimpses of work cubicles and a few people using holo screens. Compared to the sweaty, crammed-in bustle of the factory and shelter, it feels like there’s hardly anyone around.
At the end of the corridor is a closed double door with a guard stationed outside it. Not a stomper, because his uniform’s dark red, and he doesn’t have a gun. His eyes narrow when he sees me and his lip curls.
I slow down. Men in uniform make me nervous.
“Are you all right, Rayne?” asks Doctor Gregory. “Are you in pain?”
I shake my head. The doctor must notice the way I’m looking at the guard, because she says, “That’s Max, one of Director Morelle’s bodyguards. Don’t worry, he knows they’re expecting us.”
As we go past, his hostile stare stays fixed on me. He’s a shark. He may hunt the warm shallows of New Triton instead of the deep, cold waters below, but I recognize his type. I hope I never need to have anything to do with him.
While the doctor repeats the whole authorize thing with the doors, I can’t help glancing back at the guard. His lip curls and he mouths, “Sewer rat”.
“Okay, Rayne?” Doctor Gregory calls my attention back to her before I can react to the insult. “Why don’t you open it? They’re waiting for us.”
I hesitate, my mind still on the guard. “Who is?”
“Director Morelle. Didn’t I tell you? She’s overseeing the contest herself, and she wants to meet you all. This is your training room, and it’s where she’s going to brief you. The other competitors are already there.”
“Director Morelle?”
“Yes.”
“The real one?”
She laughs. “The real one.”
What the hell have I got myself into? When she mentioned the director before, I assumed I might see a holo-feed. I never dreamed she’d be here in the flesh.
Director Morelle’s in this room, and she wants me to walk in like it’s nothing?
“Come on, Rayne. She’s just a person like you or me.”
Yeah, a person like Doctor Gregory, maybe, but nothing like me.
“Don’t be afraid,” she adds.
My gaze jerks to her. Afraid? I’ve lived with fear for so long, I’ve come to know it well. And I’ve learned where real fear comes from.
Real fear is the sizzling of super-hot polymer spurting at my face. It’s cuffed wrists and waiting for the stomper behind me to use either his fists or his gun.
Fear is waking up with a sweaty male hand clamped over my mouth and trying to jerk free. A race to see whether he can fumble my clothes aside before I can scream awake a shelter full of sleeping people.
Yeah, fear and I are old pals. And I’m not about to let one woman make me tremble, no matter how powerful she is.
I swipe my band against the door.
5
The room’s bigger than any shelter I’ve seen. It could sleep a thousand people, easy. But its size is nothing compared to its height, which feels like someone forgot to put the roof on. It’s got to be ten floors tall, at least.
The far wall’s mostly taken up with tall windows that flood the room with light, and below the windows are racks of weights. There’s a large silver circle on the floor that’s several meters wide, and a black rectangle of about the same size. The wall to my right is completely silver. Ledges jut from it at irregular intervals, going all the way to the ceiling. It could be a climbing wall except it goes dizzyingly high and looks impossible to climb.
A small group of people are standing with a woman I recognize. You’d have to be from another planet not to recognize Director Morelle. She looks as perfect in the flesh as on the newsfeeds, and her skin is smooth as glass, dark and ageless. But she looks exactly the same in all the historical feeds I’ve seen, so she must be a lot older than she appears. The perks of being a trillionaire: she probably has a team standing by to tweak any blemish.
The four people with Director Morelle, three guys and a girl, turn to stare at me. They look in their late teens or early twenties, and from their dark skin and good looks, I can tell they’re floaters. Most New Tritoners have their skin darkened with melanin. Apparently it started as protection against the sun, but now their bronze toning is a status symbol. Even sinkers with naturally dark skin are so sun-starved they don’t have the same rich hue.
The floaters’ expressions turn horrified when they see my face, but I’m used to that. I lift my chin and stare back, daring them to meet my gaze.
“Ah, here’s the patient now,” says Director Morelle. It’s strange to hear her familiar voice coming out of a real mouth instead of a holo. “Lucky last of our group of five contestants. How are you feeling, Rayne?”
“Okay.” I walk up to the others, but can’t bring myself to join their cozy semi-circle. Instead I stand behind them, so if they want to keep staring they’ll have to turn to do it. I didn’t realize Doctor Gregory was going to come in as well, until she’s next to me. She stands close, as though for moral support. I’ll have to remember to tell her I appreciate it. It’s nice not to be standing alone.
“You seem unexpectedly well,” says the director. “Were Doctor Gregory’s reports of your ill-health exaggerated?”
I shrug. I’m not being rude on purpose, but I don’t know what to say. She’s the most famous woman in Triton, h
ead of the largest corporation that’s ever existed. It’s like God stuck his head down from the sky to ask how I slept.
“Oh, she was very sick when she arrived,” Doctor Gregory says. “Considering the severity of her injuries, I’m astonished how well she’s recovered.”
“Is that right?” Director Morelle arches one perfect eyebrow. “In that case, we may have a worthy competitor here. This contest will require a level of determination and toughness that will push you all to your limits. Perhaps Rayne has what it takes to win.”
The group look at me as though trying to measure my strength, and I wish the director hadn’t singled me out. By the way one big meat-sack is glowering, I know he’ll challenge me first chance he gets.
“Let me introduce you,” says Director Morelle. “Rayne, this is Brugan.” The meat-sack. He’s a tweaker and then some. His T-shirt strains so tightly across his chest, he’s probably been high-dosing growth hormone since before he could spell it. He got his chin right, it’s perfectly chiseled. But his lips are a mistake, tweaked too far and too big for his face.
Right now, his fat mouth’s twisted in disgust. I doubt he’s ever seen anyone who looks like me. When I meet his gaze with a glare and a lift of my eyebrows, he doesn’t flush like most people do. Instead his eyes narrow as though I’ve thrown down a challenge.
“And this is Aza.” Director Morelle motions to the only other girl. Aza reminds me a little of Rayne because she’s so well-groomed and fresh-looking. Her hair is vibrant red, and her skin is a deep mahogany, the darkest of the group. Her eyes are definitely tweaked. There’s no way that elfin tilted-up-at-the-corner thing is real, or the blue irises that are so bright they’re almost neon. Most New Triton girls go for curves, but she’s gone the opposite way. She’s so willowy a decent breeze could send her drifting. She’s about the same height as me, but with amazingly long legs. Those endless legs make her look elegant, like she’s dressed up even in snugs. I bet she turns heads wherever she goes.
Like I do, but for the opposite reason.
Her lips suck in as she studies me. A moment later she passes judgment: her nostrils flare and her gaze drags disdainfully away. Ouch. Guess we’re not going to be besties.
“That’s Sentin.” Director Morelle nods at a guy with neatly combed dark hair. He’s wearing glasses. Glasses! Like someone from last century. Does he really have bad eyesight and not want to get it fixed, or are they a retro-cool fashion statement?
Or could he be one of those hard-liners who think tweaking is a crime against nature? I can’t see anything about him that looks enhanced. He’s no meat-sack. If anything, he’s on the thin side. If he weren’t so well groomed, he could almost pass for a sinker.
But now I look past his glasses, the way he’s examining me is so intense it makes me want to squirm. Has he had his vision sharpened? He’s using his eyeglasses like a scientist might use a magnifying glass. I feel like a bug squirming on a pin.
“And finally, we have Cale.”
Cale’s a tall guy with black hair that’s a little scruffy, and he’s way too handsome not to have been tweaked. His soft brown eyes might be natural, but his high cheekbones, square jaw, and dark eyelashes must be designer. At least he kept the enhancements in check more than Brugan did, especially in his body, which looks fit but not too bulging. His faded blue T-shirt isn’t straining, but accentuates the toned muscles of his biceps and chest.
Funny to see a floater with a T-shirt so well-worn. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen a floater wearing anything that doesn’t look brand new. The snug fit of Cale’s shirt definitely suits him though, so maybe that’s why he…
I’m staring.
Just as I realize my eyes are raking over him, judging his good looks in exactly the way I hate people judging my ugly scars, his mouth twitches into a small grin that I totally don’t expect. It looks almost friendly.
Stiffening, I jerk my gaze away. Like I’m about to trust a look like that from someone like him.
“And now you’ve met each other, I’m afraid I must warn you not to become too close,” says Director Morelle. “You’re competing for a prize that only one of you can win.”
My fingernails scratch nervously at my palms. My competitors are all floaters, which means they’ll be tweaked on the inside as well as out. The doctor gave me a couple of shots that miracle-glued my ribs back together, but my competitors’ blood will be loaded with those nano-robot-things that give your insides a constant tune-up. They’ve probably had extra memory plugged into their brains, extra smarts, energy, the works. I bet not one of them has ever had so much as a cold. What chance do I have going up against them in any kind of contest?
“You all know what’s at stake, but let me say it again. The contest winner will receive five million credits.”
I draw in my breath. Five million credits. Is it an impossible dream?
“Of course, getting to use these Skin prototypes is a prize in itself. And the contest winner will star in a series of live promotional appearances. They’ll be a Skin ambassador, displaying to the public just how revolutionary this technology is. As such, they’ll get to keep their Skin, though participating in official events will remain a condition of ownership.” Her gaze sharpens on me, a single line appearing on her perfect brow. “Rayne, you look confused. Do you have a question?”
I shake my head, changing my expression to one of polite interest. Last thing I need is to give myself away.
“Then it’s time to see your Skins. And after all Rayne went through to get here, I think it’s only fitting that she go first.”
Brugan flashes me a glare as Director Morelle reaches for a button on the wall next to her. Now I see there’s a sliding door, the same color as the wall. In fact, there are five doors, evenly spaced. Five doors, five competitors.
The director’s hand hovers over the button without touching it as though she’s waiting for our anticipation to grow.
“Skins are the greatest technological advancement since the invention of the computer,” she says. “They have the potential to change everything about our lives. The way we work. The way we interact with others. And especially the way we play.” She pauses, meeting all of our eyes in turn. “You’re about to see the next stage of human evolution. The future is here, behind this door.”
Evolution? It sounds ridiculous. But the fervor in her voice makes my stomach clench.
She turns her gaze to me. “Rayne, this is the first Skin we made. It’s the simplest of the five Skins, but has a purity that makes it quite lovely.”
She presses the button. The door slides open, revealing a small room.
There’s an animal inside.
All five of us shrink backwards. It’s a huge cat, bigger than a person. More beautiful—and frightening—than any cat I’ve ever seen on the Holo. Its fur is pure white with silver markings in a dappled pattern over its back, and its eyes are a startling ice blue. It’s standing poised, ready to spring.
“It’s moving,” Cale breathes in a tone so stunned it echoes the way I feel.
But the animal isn’t moving. At least, it’s not leaping out or attacking. But I swear it’s breathing.
Director Morelle walks to the animal and extends one manicured hand to touch its fur. The cat’s as tall as she is, and maybe twice as long. Her hand rests well below its shoulder.
“Skins combine leading-edge materials science with advanced biotechnology. Each has a ceramic composite skeleton with fiber-optics that perfectly mimic the function of your own spinal cord. Your brain will send signals to the Skin’s nerves and muscles, to operate its limbs as you would your own.”
“It’s a leopard, isn’t it?” I ask. The beauty of those ice blue eyes draws me forward. My heart’s beating fast, but the director’s lack of fear gives me the confidence to approach.
“A clouded leopard,” the director says. “Over the synthetic skeleton we’ve grown living flesh, with real muscles, tissue, and organs. Much of this clouded leopard is
biologically identical to one you would have found in the wild. Before their extinction, of course.” She strokes her hand over its fur. “However, we did make several enhancements. It’s larger than the original animal, the surface of its skin has a ceramic plating, and its fur is impregnated with carbon fiber nanotubes as a form of armor.”
Armor? So the leopard’s been built to fight? Whatever I expected, it sure wasn’t this.
“That’s not all, Rayne. Its claws are titanium, sharp enough to be lethal. With practice, you’ll be able to traverse walls that are almost vertical.”
“Does it have its own consciousness?” asks Sentin, blinking behind his glasses. He speaks even slower than most floaters.
“Not as such. It doesn’t have what we would normally refer to as a brain.”
The director beckons me close enough to touch the animal’s fur. It feels luxuriously thick and soft, not like armor at all. And the leopard’s chest is moving in and out, so it’s definitely alive. How can it be breathing if it doesn’t have a brain?
“Susan, has Rayne had the nano transceivers injected?” asks the director.
Doctor Gregory checks her band. “Over two hours ago.”
“Good. Then she’s ready for the CTU.”
Behind the leopard is a long bench and lots of screens displaying numbers and graphs. There’s also a large chair that’s covered with hundreds of short rubber tentacles, all sticking up. The doctor takes something off the bench, and my heart lurches when I see it’s a weird-looking gun.
Director Morelle keeps talking. “The Skin’s automatic functions, such as its heart beat, breathing, and so on, are controlled by its brain stem and central nervous system. And to eliminate the need for a digestive system, it’s fueled by a high-density nutrient solution.”
I’m listening, sure. But I’m also watching Doctor Gregory walk toward me with the gun. Every grunt who’s ever spent time in a shelter probably has the same reaction to guns as I do. When a stomper pulls one out, the grunts who survive are the ones who run fastest.