by Meg Collett
“I-I’m not her,” she said. “I’m not Sloane Lux. I filed an official complaint—”
“Wren Iver of Sunshine Heights Suburb, Street 12678.3, Apartment 9.406?” The disembodied voice floated down to Wren.
Wren blinked. It hadn’t called her Sloane, meaning this wasn’t a normal mistaken-identity stop. Her mouth hung open around her halted explanation, the words drying in her throat. Her vision dipped, and her breathing stuttered from shock.
“Yes?” she breathed out, a weird sense of hope and dread mingling at the base of her spine. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”
“You will come with us peacefully.” The Link captured her arm. “You’re under arrest.”
2:
While most buildings boasted crumbling bricks and sagging foundations, the police station’s silver doors and granite stairs gleamed. The building had always terrified Wren. Since she was a little girl, she’d imagined it was the open mouth of some fanged predator, ready to snatch her up if she walked too close.
But it wasn’t the building that scared Wren this time. It was the car parked out front.
The black gas-propelled vehicle purred as it idled at the edge of the square, drawing the attention of the tired-eyed citizens standing in line for the government rations handout tonight. For the first time in her life, Wren smelled gasoline, sharp and almost sweet, like the bitter chocolate she’d eaten once, back when her mom was still alive. There wasn’t a speck of dirt along the chrome detailing. Only the tires showed any sign of having driven through the unused streets of Sunshine Heights.
They stopped alongside the car instead of walking into the police station. Wren’s heart hammered in her chest.
“What the hell is going on?” Mak sounded afraid, rather than just annoyed. She was never afraid.
The Links held them in place as the car’s back door opened, releasing a wave of air-conditioned air. A tall, broad-shouldered man unfolded himself from the dark interior.
Fine stubble covered the young man’s face, and his ashy blond hair was cut in a trim military style. He looked about the same age as Mak—twenty-three years old—though his tan skin suggested he spent a good deal more time outside. Wren imagined he was made of rock, not muscle. Steel, not bone.
He frowned, and his eyes flicked to the Links holding Wren and Mak. “This is Miss Iver?”
“This is Wren Iver of Sunshine Heights Suburb, Street 12678.3, Apartment 9.406. Wanted for Warrant F.1009.”
“A warrant?” Wren sputtered.
Mak thrashed against the Link’s plastic grip on her arm. “This is bullshit! She didn’t do anything wrong. We were just walking to work! Let me go, you robot asshole!”
The tall man held up his hands and smiled down at Wren. “It’s okay. No one’s actually under arrest.” His calm, soothing voice relaxed Wren a fraction. In response, the Link loosened its hold on her.
“What’s going on?” Wren asked.
“I just need a moment of your time, Miss Iver. Do you mind if I call you Wren? My name is Bode. If you want to take a seat in the car—”
“Oh, hell no! She’s not getting into that thing!” Mak kicked and struggled against the Link. Its grip tightened with the hum of bending plastic. Her sunglasses fell off her face. Any semblance of relief vanished as Wren watched the electric blue glasses crack and shatter beneath a plastic boot.
“Pedestrian,” the Link whirred. “You will be arrested for obstructing justice. I repeat: you will be arrested for obstructing justice.”
“Obstruct this.” Mak twisted and kneed the Link between its legs.
The bot just stared down at her with its red laser eyes.
“Mak!” Wren cried.
“You are under arrest—” the Link started.
“No,” the man named Bode interrupted. “No one is under arrest. It’s okay. Perhaps Wren’s friend would feel more comfortable out of the heat.”
“I’m fine right here,” Mak snapped, still wrenching her arm in the Link’s grip. “I’m not going anywhere—”
But the Link was already pulling her up the steps to the police station. Her shouted threats grew fainter and disappeared altogether as she was taken inside the building.
Wren’s attention shifted back to Bode. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, her voice cracking with fear. “I promise.”
“I know.” Bode nodded at the Link, and it instantly released Wren. She nearly stumbled from her sudden freedom.
“Then why am I here?”
“I apologize for this rather abrupt meeting, but I just need a moment. We can speak privately in the car. I promise it will be worth your time.”
The warmth radiating from his gold-rimmed green eyes told Wren that this man—this Bode—often reassured people, and he was good at it. He couldn’t be trusted.
“I have to be at work in a few minutes,” she said, shaking her head. She took a step back but kept her eyes locked on Bode. The Link shifted, ready to grab her if she made a run for it.
“I’ve called ahead. You won’t receive a tardy mark today. Now, I really must insist we continue this conversation in the car before we draw too much attention.”
From his shirt pocket, he pulled out a white business card and handed it to her. The card was heavy and thick in her hand. In the center of the paper was an embossed “VC.” Beneath it, in bold black letters, was “VidaCorp.” Wren’s ears started ringing, but her eyes slid down to the next line. “Bode Bafford. Head of Security.”
She jerked her eyes up to his. “You’re head of security for VidaCorp?”
“I am. Do you feel better about getting in the car with me?”
“No.” She returned his card. What in the world was the head of VidaCorp’s security doing here, in Sunshine Heights, looking for her? He had to know she wasn’t Sloane Lux.
With a sigh, he slipped the card back into his pocket. “Wren—”
“Look, I know why I’m here.”
“Do you?” Bode’s eyes tracked Wren’s every move.
“The celebrity.” Wren cleared her throat. This was just another mix up, and if she hurried, she might still make it to work before the doors locked in the day shift workers. “The Links get us mixed up quite a bit, but obviously, I’m not her. I mailed in a formal complaint to the city, but I don’t know if, um, anyone got it?”
“Which celebrity?” Bode asked, but his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
The name slid off her tongue like butter. “Sloane Lux.”
“That’s … interesting.”
Wren knew better; it wasn’t interesting at all. People said words like “that’s interesting” when laying a trap. Her father used to say those exact words when she was younger, right after her mother had died, when his drinking was at its worst. Did you make your bed, Wren? he’d ask. Yes, she’d lie. Well, that’s interesting.
Interesting was the array of colors a bruise could turn.
“Why is that interesting?” she asked cautiously.
Bode glanced around, then leaned toward Wren. His eyes were creased at the corners like he often smiled, but as he spoke, Wren only saw sadness etched into them. “Because,” he murmured, “Sloane Lux is dead.”
3:
Wren squinted against the blinding sun as she thought about the very alive-looking Sloane on the billboard. Surely she would have seen something on television about her death. “That can’t be right. She can’t just be—”
“Don’t say it.” Bode straightened away from her and glanced around. People were drifting closer to get a better look at the car. “Will you listen to me now?”
Unable to speak, Wren managed a stunned nod. When Bode stepped down onto the road to open the back door for her, he grimaced, a hitch in his step. She pretended not to notice. The back door swung open and Wren’s attention caught on the interior, which was dark as a womb. A driver sat in front, his eyes locked straight ahead. A Link.
Wren eased inside, head bent, and scuttled forward. The cool air s
kimmed across her skin, and the leather squeaked as she slid over to make room for Bode.
He settled into the seat beside her and slammed the door shut. Wren wiped her palms on her dirty pants, her eyes shifting to the door. There was no handle on her side. No way to escape.
Breathing through her nose to fill her battered lungs with clean air, she told herself to calm down. As if the thought alone had conjured a spasm, her throat itched, and she had to fight back a cough. Not now, she thought. I can’t have a coughing fit now.
“Okay,” Bode said. “Now we can talk.”
Recovered from her shock, Wren dove right in, the question rushing from her mouth. “How did she die?”
“Drug overdose. But her death isn’t public knowledge.”
Wren hadn’t expected Bode’s forthright answer, and she gaped at him. Why was the head of VidaCorp’s security telling her the truth about Sloane Lux’s death if it wasn’t public? Wren was public; she was so public she couldn’t afford public transportation.
“She was found dead earlier this week in her penthouse,” Bode offered like that would help, but it didn’t. Wren was still trying to figure out how she factored into any of this. “Serk overdose.”
There were rumors of Sloane’s drug habit, but nothing concrete. Hollywood cultivated rumors almost as much as VidaCorp cultivated Beau Montgomery campaign commercials.
“Why didn’t she just take medication for her addiction? Doesn’t VidaCorp have a pill that could’ve fixed her?” Wren asked, but even as she spoke, a horrible thought occurred to her. “You don’t think I had anything to do with her death? I—”
Bode held up a hand to ease her panic. “No, Wren. We know you didn’t. We’re here for a specific reason—one you already mentioned.”
Wren’s throat constricted. “Why?”
“You look like her, and the executive producers of Glass House are looking for a replacement. It’s important that this show goes off without a hitch.”
Wren’s brain had snagged on “replacement.” They wanted her to … replace Sloane Lux? As in, impersonate her? How could they expect her to pull that off without someone noticing? She might vaguely resemble Sloane Lux now, but as her illness progressed, her body would deteriorate. Soon, she’d be barely more than the faded, rust-colored stain in her apartment building’s lobby. The mistake they were making was almost funny. Almost.
These people were insane.
“They can’t just replace a person.”
Bode’s mouth hooked a little at the corner, like a flat-lining smile. “Everyone is replaceable.”
“That’s why VidaCorp is keeping her death quiet?”
“One of the reasons.”
Wren shifted in her seat. She needed to cough so badly. She had to get out of the car, get some air, and take a deep breath. The smooth leather was closing in around her, choking her.
She forced down a burning breath and commanded her lungs to quit itching and her heart to calm down so she could hear her own thoughts. It wasn’t the time to panic. She had to think.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “Why is VidaCorp handling this instead of the show’s producers?”
“The network asked VidaCorp to get involved because we have the resources to make the necessary alterations to a person. Because of all the police reports on you and your formal complaint, you were the producers’ first pick. You resemble Sloane enough that you’ll be a perfect match after a few surgeries and voice alterations.”
Her thoughts reeled at Bode’s offhanded mention of surgeries and voice alterations. Could they really alter someone’s entire face, body, and voice to such a degree? She didn’t want to know. Sure, the Links sometimes stopped her because they thought she was Sloane and their interconnected intelligence told them Sloane didn’t belong in Sunshine Heights. It didn’t mean she could replace Sloane on a television show and pretend to be a person that millions of people worshiped and knew better than her own parents probably did.
Wren was shaking her head without realizing it and forced herself to stop. “This is crazy. I’m plain and skinny and nothing like her if you look close enough. The Links’ scanners just snag on me for some reason. It would be a joke if I replaced her.”
“I’m sorry, Wren, but you don’t even register in the system when the Links scan you. Sloane shows up first.”
You don’t even register. Wren tried not to cringe. “This is a mistake.”
Bode pulled out a slim tablet from the pocket on the back of the driver’s seat. He swiped his finger across the screen, and an image blazed through the semi-darkness of the car. The picture was of Sloane Lux’s face, a beautiful haze of perfection—golden hair, sun-kissed skin, and startlingly blue eyes. He turned the tablet so she could see the image more clearly.
“You two could be sisters,” he said.
The only sister Wren had ever wanted was Mak. “This will never work, no matter what I look like. I’m dying. I have lung cancer. It’s not treatable. The hospitals won’t touch me.”
“I know. We all know. Wren”—he leaned toward her, his smile soft, his eyes kind—“we’re going to save you. VidaCorp can cure your cancer once Pacem is legal—if you agree to the terms of replacing Sloane.”
In the silence that stretched between them while he waited for Wren to say something, the car—the world—tilted beneath her.
They could save her.
“I’ll get Pacem just for replacing Sloane?”
They could save me.
“There’s a bit more to it than that, but I’m taking you into the city to meet with people who will explain everything. Is that okay?”
“Today?” She nearly choked. “We’re going to the city today?”
“Yes,” Bode said.
She sipped steady breaths of air to keep from fainting. “What if the producers decide I’m not a good match when I get there? Will I still get the cure once Pacem is legal? Can I stay home until it is?”
“The producers believe you’re a good match, but you’ll need to act the part. You’ll have to learn about every facet of Sloane’s life. It will be on your shoulders to pull this off.”
“And if I fail?” Wren asked. The unasked question nearly fell off her tongue. Will they kill me for knowing this secret once everyone realizes they’ve made a horrible mistake?
Bode pressed his lips together, not smiling for once. “That really isn’t an option.”
“You’ll kill me?”
His eyes stretched wide. “Christ. No. We won’t kill you. That’s not what I meant. We simply won’t be able to cure you, and you’ll be under a strict non-disclosure. You’ll be allowed to return here, to your father and friends, but if you told anyone what we offered you or how VidaCorp helped the network conceal Sloane’s death, you’d be sent to prison for a long time.”
His reassurances fell on deaf ears with Wren; she’d never put much stock in them. “Will I come back here after we go to the city today?”
“I can’t say that you will.” Bode checked something on his tablet. “We have a cover story ready to go for your father. He’ll believe you were transferred to another city for work, and he’ll receive your monthly ward check as usual.”
The words to tell Bode not to bother with the ward check were on the tip of her tongue, but she bit them back. Her father bought his beer with her checks, and the beer helped him forget her mother was dead. If Wren was gone too, she could let him have his drink. “This is really happening?”
“Yes.”
She licked her lips, the decision weighing heavily on her chest. “Let me say goodbye to Mak.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What?” Panic surged in a zapping current beneath her skin. “I can’t leave without letting her know. She’s my best friend. She’s the—” She’d been about to say Mak was the only one who cared about her, but these people didn’t need to know how pathetic she was. “Please?”
It only took a second of Bode staring at her before h
e gave in. “Quickly. I’ll have the Links bring her out.”
“And she won’t be arrested for being, um, belligerent?”
Bode leaned toward the driver’s seat and tapped the Link on the shoulder. “Comm the station. Have Mak Lourdes escorted outside—without charge,” he added with a glance at Wren.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You can’t say anything about what I told you, okay?” He waited until Wren nodded, his light eyes holding hers. “You understand what will happen if you let anything slip?”
Was that a threat? What would they do to Mak?
“I hate that it has to be this way, Wren, but I promise this isn’t as scary as it seems. We just have to keep certain things private for now. You understand?”
A light knock sounded on the window next to Bode. He opened the door, and Wren saw a Link restraining Mak by her arm as they descended the station’s stairs. Bode gracefully climbed out, and Wren clambered out behind him. At the sight of her, Mak wrenched free and bounded down the last few steps. She wrapped Wren up in a tight hug.
In all the years she’d known her best friend, Mak had never hugged her. She’d never hugged anyone that Wren knew of.
“Holy shit, Wren,” Mak said against her ear, squeezing her so tightly her cancer-riddled lungs started to complain. “What the hell is happening?”
When Mak released her, Wren said, “I’m okay. Everything is fine.”
“You always say that,” Mak hissed between her teeth. Her eyes flashed to Bode, who was waiting discreetly by the car door. “What’s going on? Is she under arrest?” She turned back to Wren without letting him answer. “What happened?”
“It’s fi—”
“Stop saying that. I can tell you’re terrified.”
Wren fumbled for something to say to calm Mak down. She’d seen this version of her best friend before, the stubbornly loyal and unrelenting side. She wouldn’t back down anytime soon.