by A. L. Davroe
In almost comical timing, Bastian wanders by us, searching eyes skimming, lingering, but ultimately passing on, still looking. Delia hides her grin behind her hand until he looks away.
Smug, I cross my arms. “Feel free to bow before my genius.”
She takes a dramatic step backward and curtsies. “I am unworthy.”
We both break down in laughter, her new, Elite-worthy giggle making me feel like I’ve lost an old friend who I never truly knew.
Chapter Three
Post-American Date: 6/14/231
Longitudinal Timestamp: 9:43 p.m.
Location: Dome 5: Evanescence
We sit at a table close enough to Quentin Cyr that Delia and I can see him, but far enough away that no one will say anything to us. Sometimes it’s as if the other Aristocrats think they’ll catch some kind of Natural disease from us.
Dee puts down her glass of champagne and says, “So, how does it feel to be a celebrity?”
I smirk. “You mean being the only person left in Evanescence who still looks like a Natural?”
Dee’s face falls, knowing that I’m subtly jabbing her for leaving me to be the only freak. “I was talking about your dad.”
“I know.”
There’s an awkward moment of silence but eventually, she says, “He’ll have to let you Mod and Alt now, right? I mean, you’re both Elite now.”
I stare at my hands. “I don’t think so.” It doesn’t matter to Dad how out of place I am, he’s really stubborn.
“Oh,” she breathes. As if wanting to give herself something more cheerful to think about, Delia’s eyes dart toward where Quentin Cyr is sitting surrounded by Aristocratic friends and his slave Dolls.
He seems bored by all the attention, his eyes—like diamonds twinkling under the thousands of tiny LED lights—look glazed. When he shifts, his hair gleams—each strand like a fiber-optic ray of starlight and his silvery skin has a delicate pattern that shimmers mutely when he moves.
“He looks like an angel,” Delia whispers, awed.
I nod, not bothering to remind her she’s never actually seen an angel. But I do agree with her. Dressed in a slashed white doublet and white breeches, lounging on his throne like a prince, and looking so perfect, I swear I might see some wings manifesting behind his lovely, lace-swathed head. I smooth out the fabric of my dress, thinking of how we’d look so complementary on the dance floor together, a swirling black and white pair. “I’ve never seen a person with such an eye for Alteration and Modification. He should be a Designer.”
“Yeah, it’s like every surgery he undergoes only serves to intensify the aesthetic pleasure of staring at him.”
I glance at Dee. She has got her chin propped on her fist and is doing the goo-goo eyed thing. “Careful, you might start drooling.” She doesn’t seem to hear me. I glance back at Quentin, the desire I have just to stand close to him hurting my chest.
Of course, such perfection comes with a price. As much as I want to only stare at Quentin, I can’t help how my eyes wander to his collection of Dolls. Dolls aren’t dolls at all, but Disfavored Naturals who have, for some reason or another, subjected themselves to allowing Aristocrats to experiment on them in the search of just the right Modification or Alteration. In Quentin’s case, it’s a group of boys who all seem about our age. Quentin always keeps his Dolls close to him. He dresses them in simple black, overly stiff outfits—like a troop of stoic masterpieces dressed in the unifying mark of a military uniform.
As gaudy as the whole troop of them look together, each is lovely in his own right. It seems Quentin puts some thought into who he will use for what experiments. It would do no good to begin Alting and Moding at random and letting all the Dolls you surround yourself with become so ugly you couldn’t stand to even look at them. It’s as if Quentin wants to make a point—a Doll is his master’s marionette.
“I’ve never noticed how many Dolls Quentin actually has,” I say quietly.
Delia shifts next to me. “What?”
“The Dolls. Do you think he drags all those Dolls around to brag?”
Delia’s gaze drifts to the Dolls standing to Quentin’s left. “Brag how?”
I roll my eyes. Delia, while sweet and wonderful and a genius with codes, lacks common sense. “A display of wealth. To show how many people he was willing to buy, to show how much he continues to put into each one. How many credits do you think all those people and all those Mods and Alts cost him?”
Delia nods to herself, her lips lifting at one corner. “He can give me one if he’s looking to fatten his credit account. I’ll take Shadow.”
I glance at the Doll standing just behind Quentin’s shoulder. That Doll is the most heavily used out of all of them, perhaps so much so that he may not qualify as beautiful any more. Out of all the Dolls, he seems like Quentin’s favorite. Quentin even takes him to school with him. That Doll never speaks to anyone but Quentin and no one knows his name. We all just call him Shadow.
There are many lower-class Aristocratic girls who, knowing they’ll never have a chance at even speaking to Quentin, begin obsessing over Shadow—as if that will somehow bring them closer to Quentin. They wonder who he is and why he’s a Doll. Some fantasize that Quentin has yet to court a girl because he is secretly involved with Shadow—a scandal of secret love between such distinct classes.
Personally, I’m not interested in Shadow. His unnatural, Modified eyes and over-sharp features are predatory. Like a genetically spliced and puzzled-together toy soldier, he’s always rigid—as if he can barely move in his starched uniform, and he stares at us in such a way that he looks as if he wants to strangle us all. He knows he’s a sideshow freak, and he hates us for putting him there.
“You can have him,” I say, turning my eyes back to Quentin. “I’m only interested in the best.”
“What about Zane Boyd? I saw you dancing with him earlier. He’s a total catch.”
I shrug. “Bastian says I shouldn’t.”
“That’s because Bastian wants you for himself.” Her voice is sad and resigned. It’s always been clear to me that Delia has always had a thing for Bastian.
“Does not.”
She lifts her brows. “Oh come on, Ni, I’ve known you both for forever, and he likes you. It’s obvious.”
“He doesn’t. He acts like I’m a giant burden that Uncle Simon constantly shoves on him. And he’s my cousin—that’s gross.”
“He’s not your real cousin.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “That doesn’t matter. He’s like an annoying older brother. It won’t happen. Besides,” I say, turning away. “Bastian thinks Zane is talking to Dad about courting.”
Delia gasps, her eyes wide. Eventually, she says. “I do hear things about Zane…”
I close my eyes and sigh. “Yeah. I know.” He’d be the disloyal sort of husband, should this marriage come to fruition. For a moment, I toy with the idea of rejecting the concept. But, I remind myself that, in the Aristocracy, marriages are for convenience, not love. And Zane is a good choice for me, more than I deserve. I’d be lucky to get him.
“There are a lot of marriages like that, though,” Delia says. “It doesn’t mean you’d be unhappy. He’s wealthy, has lots of power, and he’s well liked.”
I nod.
“Maybe it won’t even happen, though. Maybe we’re just speculating. Maybe you’ll marry Quentin?” she offers.
I smile at her. I love this girl. “Maybe…”
She leans forward. “Maybe you should go show him your mask?”
I turn to her wide-eyed and can’t help a scoff. “You’re joking, right? I’ve never been within ten feet of Quentin. I doubt he even knows I exist. Besides, I don’t have a high enough social standing to present myself.”
Dee holds up a finger. “Correction. You didn’t have a high enough social standing. Your fath
er has been elevated to the Elite, which means you have as well. You’re now eligible to present yourself to someone as high ranking as Quentin.”
“I guess so.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “Still, the prospect of actually calling attention to myself in front of him…”
“If you’re good enough to attract Zane Boyd’s attention, then you’re good enough for Quentin Cyr.” In the next instant, Delia’s fingers are clamping around mine. “Come on, silly.”
The hover-chair goes spinning as she hauls me out of my seat and drags me across the dance floor.
Chapter Four
Post-American Date: 6/14/231
Longitudinal Timestamp: 10:02 p.m.
Location: Dome 5: Evanescence
Delia squeezes my hand as we stand in the small crowd of girls lining the carpet. “Ohmysparks, I’m so nervous,” she squeals.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I mutter back.
Delia and I stand on the edge of the group of girls wanting Quentin’s attention, practically hiding behind one of the massive columns supporting a ceiling painted with fat, naked children with fluffy wings. Delia’s hand is shaking in mine. I know she’s the one shaking and not me because, again, I’ve gone so stiff I can barely breathe. I have no idea if either of us is reacting out of excitement or fear.
Carsai glares at us from where she’s standing with her two friends and some of the other Elite girls from Paramount. They’re all standing closer to Quentin’s inner circle, unafraid to get close and flaunt themselves for his inspection. She mutters something to the closest few; they glance toward us and start cackling. I turn away from them and look back at Quentin. His friends and his Dolls watch us girls with interest, though Quentin doesn’t seem to be looking at all.
The crowd of Aristocratic boys and Dolls divides, giving us a clear view of Quentin as he stands. He stretches and yawns, showing a lazy carelessness about this whole affair while giving all of us a tempting glimpse of his abdominal enhancements. He glances sideways at Shadow, and some kind of silent message is exchanged between the two of them. Shadow picks up Quentin’s untouched glass of champagne and follows him as he takes steps down the dais. I hold my breath as he walks toward us, Shadow haunting his footsteps and his friends from school and his Dolls trailing like the Halley’s Comet that Dad once showed me a holograph of.
He slows as he comes closer to the girls gathered at the bottom of the dais, his eyes slicing to the side to examine each with half interest. Delia and I have watched this happen at other balls. This is always how it works. If a girl isn’t astounding enough to catch his attention from the corner of his eye, he won’t spare her a full glance. If he likes what he sees upon further examination, he’ll ask that particular girl to dance. To my knowledge, only three girls have been asked to dance in the past. Carsai was one of them. Once. He never asked her to dance again.
Delia’s fingers tighten so hard around mine that I want to cry out, but I try valiantly to keep my face serene as I watch his feet advance down the green carpet. He passes Carsai without a glance. Her two friends step forward to intercept him, and he brushes past them, too. He pauses as he comes flush with Delia. Stops.
I chance a glance up. He’s staring at me.
I swallow, uncertain whether I should curtsy or remain still so that he can examine me. Should I look into his eyes?
Slowly, his brow—or, what remains of his brow—creases downward, and the sparkles in his eyes twinkle out until I’m looking at flat amber eyes. Suddenly he scowls, turns, and stomps away. For a long moment, we’re all too stunned to move. Then, everyone begins tripping over each other in their effort to herd after him.
Everyone but Shadow. He’s standing over me, tall and overbearing as a droid security officer, his eyes that frightening combination of something caught between animal and human: something made soulless by the machinations of a superior man. He stares at me with an expression that I can’t read—his face is too badly Modified to properly relay emotion.
I stare back at him, unable to look away. I feel pain in my chest, and shame. My face is hot, and my eyes are tearing. Who else is staring at me like this beast?
He reaches out toward me. I try to step back, but I hit the pillar behind me, so I lift my hands to protect myself from his attack. Before I can stop him, before I can cry out, he snatches the holo-mask headband from off my head, throws it to the ground, and slams his heel down upon it, snapping the frame in half and leaving two twisted, silver crescents connected by wires on the floor.
I turn my gaze from the broken holo-mask to him, bewildered and confused. I had thought he was going to bring physical harm to me. But all he really wanted to harm was my mask. The thing that made me like the other Aristocrats. Why? Why does he care?
Shadow lifts his terrifying eyes, black as my dress, and a strange expression crosses his mutilated features. His face is so far gone that I can’t tell what his features are saying to me. Satisfaction in the cast of his chin? Betrayal in those primal eyes? Disgust in his upturned nose? Disappointment in the cast of his thin lips? Apprehension in his stance? He looks like he both wants to pounce on me and run away from me at the same time. Kill me or flee from me. Are my Natural features that hideous to look at? The expression is there for a mere instant before he lets out a long sigh, shakes his head, then turns and walks away from me.
I feel like I’m standing on a pedestal, on display before everyone, and not in a good way. Carsai is laughing just to my left. I can’t look up. I refuse. I know they are laughing at me. Know that I’m ruined. The blood is rushing too fast in my ears; the tears are blurring my vision. All I can do is stare at the destroyed pieces of what, three minutes ago, had been something that made me part of a world I longed for. I have been put in my place.
“Well,” Delia breathes, her voice shaking. “That was just plain rude.” She grabs my wrist and drags me to the nearest bathroom where we barricade ourselves away from society and the Aristocracy. Away from Shadow’s cruelty, Quentin’s rejection, and Carsai’s mockery. Dee holds me, letting me cry on her shoulder until I have no tears left. Then she tries to put me back together again.
“They’re all just jealous of you, NiNi.”
I shake my head at the bare chrome wall of the stall door. “They hate me.”
Her face scrunches in concern. “N-No, they don’t. They just aren’t used to it. I mean, I’ve never seen it. But it’s smart.”
I shake my head. “It was stupid. I was stupid. I’ll never get anywhere now.”
“You never know,” she ventures. “You’re still turning heads. And that’s what it’s all about, right?”
Laughing bitterly, I shake my head. She doesn’t get it. I’m ruined. I’ve made a fool of myself in front of the most Elite people in school. Quentin hates me. And to top it all off, I let a Doll shame me. I wish I were dead.
Chapter Five
Post-American Date: 6/15/231
Longitudinal Timestamp: 12:04 a.m.
Location: Dome 5: Evanescence
After Delia leaves, I find an alcove and decide to hide in it until it’s time to leave. A few minutes later, Bastian steps in and sits beside me. “Here.” He offers the broken bits of my holo-mask.
I lower my chin. “I don’t want it.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “That was stupid.”
I close my eyes. “I know.”
“We’re not like them.”
Annoyed, I open my eyes and cut them toward him. “I know.”
He stares at his hands. Modified hands that have been Altered, turning the Natural into something acceptable. I don’t know where Bastian thinks he can get off even saying “us.” “What’s so special about Quentin Cyr anyway? I mean, he’s just some stupid—”
“Don’t,” I breathe.
“But—”
“No, Bastian. I don’t want to tal
k about it.” I give him a desperate expression. “Just let it go, okay?”
His eyes examine mine for a long moment, then he says, “Fine.” He gets up and lays the headband beside me. “You really do look beautiful tonight. I should have told you that earlier.” He turns and walks away.
Sighing, I stare down at the headband until a shadow falls over me. “That’s quite the contraption.”
I close my eyes. It’s Zane. Great, he saw the spectacle, too. Will my shame never cease? Well, there goes the courting. He’ll never want to be with a pariah like me now. “It was a stupid idea to wear it.”
He steps to the side and sits next to the headband. He picks it up, turns it over between his fingers. “Was it? I think it’s pretty revolutionary, actually.”
“That’s my point. If I could do that with a simple holo-mask, then anyone could.”
Zane purses his lips. He knows I’m right. If I was able to program a mask to make my face look just as Modified and Altered as any Aristocrat’s, then what’s to stop one of the Disfavored from doing it? A mask like that undermines the system. Eventually he smiles, apprehensive, and meets my eyes. “Well, they don’t have Programmers as talented and ingenious as you out there. So it’s a good thing you’re on the side of the Aristocracy, isn’t it?”
I snort and look away. “I’m a threat to them.”
He places a hand on my knee, and it makes my stomach go aflutter, despite my bad mood. “It’s good that you’re aware of it.”
My floating stomach sinks, and I shake my head with a bitter scoff. “Is that supposed to comfort me?”
His fingers tighten, drawing my leg open so that our knees touch and he leans closer to me. “Not at all,” he whispers in a spine-tingling purr, eyes alight with secret sparkle. “It should scare you. It should scare you and enliven you. It should make you want to start a fire. Because you can.”