“A convention,” said her chair pusher. “They’ll all be drunk as skunks in another two hours.” He did not push her quickly, probably to avoid drawing attention. She craned her neck to see where her companions were, but all she saw was the wide body of her guide. He wore a black suit and a white shirt. His face was bearded and doughy. He smiled at her. One of his back teeth appeared to be made of gold.
He bypassed a long desk along one wall where people stood between velvet ropes supported by brass stands. A sign above the desk read REGISTRATION. To one side was a round table, decorated with a huge spray of yellow flowers. Lilies. Jacey could smell their heavy perfume. It made her nose itch.
They passed more elevators and headed into a wide hallway flanked on each side by glass-fronted stores filled with clothes on hangers and jewelry under glass.
“Why am I in this chair?” she asked, as calmly as she could.
“We’re in a camera zone,” he said. He leaned so close his voice was hot on her ear. “But it’s impossible for the identification AI to analyze your gait if you’re not walking, right?”
“Clever.”
“That’s why Meow Meow calls me when she’s in town.”
They continued down the corridor of shops, then stopped at another bank of elevators.
“So you’re Siggy.”
“The one and only.” His voice was high and raspy. He pushed her into an elevator, then jabbed a couple buttons. The doors closed.
“Why didn’t you wait for the others?” she asked.
The man stepped around to face her. “Pull up the veil. Lemme see.”
“That defeats the purpose of the veil.”
“Look. I already know you’re a Jackie B. carbo. I’ve seen you on SNN. I know that’s who Meow Meow left the island with.” His eyes were small and set close to his nose. The beard was squared off at the bottom.
“What about cameras?”
“We disabled the one in this elevator before you got here.”
Jacey lifted the veil and threw it back over her head. “Satisfied?”
He whistled through his teeth, the sliver of gold tooth flashing. “Jackie B. in the flesh. Amazing. Put the veil back on.”
The elevator car stopped, the door slid open. He wheeled her into a hallway with hotel room doors on either side. Beige carpet, gold and peach wallpaper in a fancy pattern, wood doors stained very dark. The light was subdued. A hush hung in the corridor like fog.
Jacey started to get up.
“No. There’re cameras.”
He pushed her down the hall, then stopped at room 1313. “My double lucky number,” he said. He pressed a thumb to a pad next to the door. The latched clicked. He opened the door and backed her in. “No cams in here. You can stand up.”
The room was smaller than the one at The Ratz in Casino San Juan. Just one largish room with two small beds. Jacey hated the abstract pattern of squiggles covering the bedspread. The aqua and red colors made her squint. Siggy turned on a light. It glowed a dim amber, leaving corners of the room shadowy.
Siggy settled himself into a brown armchair by the window. The shades were drawn and only dim slashes of city lights showed around the edges. He pulled a tablet from his pocket and started tapping the screen.
The tables, chairs, and chest of drawers were all utilitarian and lifeless. They spoke of no design, no sense of artistry or care for the humans who had to use them.
Shivering in a draft churning from a vent box under the window, Jacey sat on a bed and tugged off her veil. The mattress barely gave under her weight. It was like sitting on padded concrete. Remarkable, considering Jacey was used to sleeping in a very hard bunk in Girls’ Hall. The pillows were low, flat and hard, as if they’d been stuffed with folded up blankets instead of foam or feathers.
“Where are my friends?” she asked, folding her veil. The cold was creeping into her stomach. She realized the prixie was wearing off. The room wasn’t going to be big enough for all three of them.
Siggy didn’t look up from his tablet. “They’re being taken to their own rooms.”
“I want to see them. Immediately.” She headed for the door.
“Don’t even peek out without your veil over that pretty face of yours. But don’t bother. Meows and Dante are not on this floor. The hotel is booked up with that convention. You were lucky I got three rooms at all.”
“I need to talk to them.”
He raised his eyes. “Relax. Give them time to settle in and use the bathroom.”
Jacey was about to argue when Siggy abruptly stood. He was still looking at his tablet. “You’re going to want to see this. Here. I’ll put it on the big screen.” He grabbed a remote for the monitor that hung on the wall across from the beds. The screen flashed on.
A SNN reporter was talking directly to the camera. “Officials in Puerto Rico are saying that a chartered sub-orb left just minutes prior to officials shutting down the San Juan Skyport. It is believed that pop starlet Meow Meow, along with her two co-conspirators, fled to Chicago to avoid questioning by IPA authorities regarding the apparent murder of an individual at a press event held by the heir to Elizabeth Burnell’s fortune, Vin Burnell.”
Siggy muted the report and tossed the remote onto the bed. “Murderers, eh? I never thought Meow Meow would get tangled up in that sort of thing.”
She wound the veil over her hand, thinking of poor Ping. Not the Progenitor, but the Scion she’d known her whole life.
Siggy tilted his head with indifference. “The Agency don’t care about the murder, you know. You’re a pretty damn fancy carbo and they are dying to get to the bottom of where you came from. Tell me, who made you?”
He was smiling. Grinning, actually. The look in his eyes chilled Jacey. She’d seen it before on Dr. Carlhagen, Senator Bentilius, and even Belle and Humphrey.
Calculation.
Jacey remembered that this man was with the IPA. And if he was corrupt, then what loyalty did he truly have to Meow Meow? She had to assume he was working for the Agency now. “My body might be a clone. But I am Jacqueline Buchanan. Nobody made me.”
Siggy laughed and flourished his hand in a mock bow. “Whatever you say, foxy. Whatever you say.”
10
How Insignificant She Is
Minutes were ripping by like machine gun fire. It was past ten in the morning for Dr. Carlhagen, which meant it was past 9 a.m. Chicago.
Now that Jacey was on the run and Vin and Dante’s faces were on SNN every ten minutes, the truth about the Scion program was seeping into the world. He needed to get ahead of the story so he could control it.
It was the optimal time of day for a press event of this importance, so at least one thing was going his way. SNN and the other news sites would gab about it all day, he was sure. And probably for many days to come.
Maxine stood before him in a black pantsuit that was several sizes too big. He used binder clips to tailor it. The cameras wouldn’t see the back anyway. “Your hair is too sultry,” he said. “Can’t you make it more conservative?”
The 84-year-old Senator Bentilius—who now inhabited the body of the Scion Belle—let an irritated frown appear on her face. It vanished. The meek, submissive expression Dr. Carlhagen expected returned.
That slip of honest emotion was a good reminder about the woman he was dealing with. She had more blood on her hands—literally—than he did. But she understood he was in command, so she was doing her best to play-act at obedience in hopes he wouldn’t withhold her anti-transfer-rejection drugs. Without the ATR, she would fall into a coma within a few days.
She tucked her hair behind her ears. It made her look younger, more girlish. It would do. Dr. Carlhagen was no hairdresser.
“We have two calls to make,” he said. “The first is going to be a bit brutal. I’ll keep it short.”
He put his hands on the holodesk. “Korra Bolelli.”
He knew the woman was at her home in Sienna, Italy. He’d had Lazarus contact her to check. All she kn
ew was that Dr. Carlhagen was going call about her Scion. That always got a Progenitor’s attention.
Korra’s holo appeared above the desk. She wore a sundress. Her hair was chopped short. Belle’s face, aged forty years, looked birdlike. The blue eyes were just as icy, but there was a guardedness to them that Belle hadn’t possessed. In all, Korra was beautiful and cold and—to Dr. Carlhagen’s shock—horrifically thin.
“Who are you?” she asked. Korra’s English jumped with the melodic accents of her native tongue.
“I’m Dr. Carlhagen. I have transferred into this Scion.”
That made the woman pause. Her lips parted. “What is the agreed code phrase?”
Every Progenitor had created a code phrase for Dr. Carlhagen, so he could prove to them he was himself even after he transferred. He’d had Lazarus dig it up so he’d be prepared. “Eleven Train Three Women Washing Stockings.”
Her eyes flashed in recognition. There was something more there, too. The realization of what his transfer meant.
“It works,” she said, smiling now. “It truly works. Vin Burnell really is Elizabeth. And you . . . But you do not look like you.”
“I arranged to exchange my Scion with another. The technology has advanced such that we no longer require a clone.”
There was no use in pleasantries or skirting around the issue. He barged ahead with the bad news. “And that is a good segue into why I called. It’s about your Scion. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was forced to transfer another Progenitor into your Scion.”
Korra blinked, head tilting.
Dr. Carlhagen waved Maxine toward him. She stepped into view of the holodesk cameras so that Korra could see her.
Korra backed up a step, mouth dropping open.
“Hello, Ms. Bolelli,” Maxine said. “I apologize for commandeering your Scion. I hope you’ll allow me to explain.”
A string of Italian curses erupted from the woman, her finger pointing at Dr. Carlhagen, eyes shards of ice. Now she did look like Belle.
“Korra, my dear,” he said. “Please calm yourself. The Progenitor who overwrote your Scion is none other than Senator Maxine Bentilius. She came to St. Vitus recently in the final stages of a grave illness. Her own Scion was simply too young to endure a transfer, so we had to make a difficult choice. It turned out that Belle was the best match. We did not have time to contact you, and I’m sorry about that. But there is good news.”
Korra hunched forward, as if hugging in her anger, arms crossed, foot tapping. Her eyebrows were scrunched with such fury Dr. Carlhagen worried the woman was going to fly into a spitting rage at any second.
Maxine put on one of her politician’s smiles. “I am prepared to offer you my Scion, Ms. Bolelli, in exchange for yours. She is about 14 years old, so she’ll be ready for transfer in just a few years. You are still young, I hope you’ll see that this is not—”
“You ignore an important point!” Korra Bolelli shouted. “I don’t want you to look like me. That’s my face. My body. I want you out!”
Dr. Carlhagen had expected this reaction, but that didn’t make the experience more pleasant. “It’s what we have to offer you. Accept it or not.”
“I do not accept it. If my Scion was ready for transfer once, she is ready now. I insist to be transferred into her immediately. I demand it. Or—or—”
“Or what?” Dr. Carlhagen said.
“I’ll tell everyone about the Scion program. I will!”
Dr. Carlhagen smiled. “You’ll have to be quick about that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Watch SNN. In a few minutes you’ll see what I mean.” He straightened. “Now. Think about our offer. Senator Bentilius’s Scion is very lovely and healthy. You might quite enjoy inhabiting a different body for your next lifetime. I know I’m finding it quite pleasurable.”
He cut off the connection while Korra was still inhaling for another round of shouting. “She has no idea how insignificant she is,” he said. “Almost as useless as Janicka was.”
“I have Maggie Carlyle, producer at SNN,” Lazarus announced, face popping up on the wall. “She says the SNN anchor is standing by and ready for the broadcast.”
“Connect us. Maxine, you’re on. Your talking points will appear on the pixel wall.” He pushed her in front of the desk, then stepped out of view of the cameras.
A slim woman in her mid-twenties appeared above the holodesk. She wore a stylishly informal outfit of trousers and a baggy striped shirt. The sleeves hung over her hands, which clutched a tablet. “I’m Maggie, a producer for SNN. Who am I speaking with?”
Maxine may not have liked the situation she was in, but she wasn’t nervous. She’d been on countless newscasts over her long career. She smiled, crinkling her eyes for authenticity. “I am Senator Maxine Bentilius. And this,” she said, making a flourish around her face, “is my new body.”
Without looking up from her tablet, Maggie nodded. “We’re coming back from a commercial in ten seconds. You will be on momentarily.”
Dr. Carlhagen felt a rush of warmth pass through his chest. This was it. The timing was not what he’d originally planned, but it would serve well enough. The Scion program was about to become common knowledge throughout the world.
11
Plag
“This is your hideaway?” Summer said to Orson. She glanced at Humphrey, making a face, as if the state of the small island was his fault.
“Yep,” Orson said. “Not too shabby, eh?”
Humphrey’s heart froze. His jaw clenched so tightly his head throbbed. The hideaway—the compound full of food that Orson had described—turned out to be a cluster of crumbling stucco buildings, most without roofs.
From the bridge of Aphrodite, he could barely see the buildings, for the very streets of what had once been a small harbor town were overgrown with scrub brush and towering banyan trees.
Wanda stood next to him, radiating fury.
But it was Leslie who spoke next. Hearing her voice, now untainted by Mr. Justin’s mind, still made Humphrey’s skin shiver. Of all the Scions, Leslie had the oddest perspective. She’d been overwritten by Dr. Carlhagen’s butler and had “awakened” on Aphrodite after being restored from a backup. Wanda had explained events to her, but she didn’t really seem to understand where the Scions were going.
“There’s no fence,” Leslie said, voice full of wonder. “We could go anywhere.”
Summer made a noise though her nose. “I sure hope so. This place is the worst.” Her fingers wiggled, itching for a tool so she could get started fixing everything in sight.
Orson ran his tongue over his teeth, making his lips bulge. “What you’re seeing isn’t the hidey-hole, kids.” Humphrey realized the wet, nasal panting coming from Orson’s nose was laughter. Orson’s belly jiggled. “The Scion compound is inland. And there’s a fence. Big one.”
“Wait!” Wanda said, squinting. “There’s a hand-painted sign on the dock. It says . . . ’plag?’ What does plag mean?”
Orson’s nostrils whistled as he laughed again. “I painted that. It says ‘plague.’ To scare off people who might wander by.”
“Oh. You didn’t spell it right.”
Humphrey spotted the huge sign—at least three meters wide. It leaned on the concrete pier jutting into the sheltered harbor. PLAG. STAY AWAY.
“There’s no crane,” Summer said. “How will we get the bus off?”
“There’s supposed to be a crane,” Orson said. “It’s hidden in the trees on the west side of town. That’s what Justin told me, anyway.”
“How will that help us? We need it by the ship.”
Orson looked at Summer, beady eyes shrinking to reddish pinpoints. “I’ll drive the crane onto the pier.”
Summer’s face transformed and she hopped up and down, clapping. “A mobile crane! I’ve got to see this.” All her disgust with the rotting town vanished.
Orson piloted Aphrodite closer. Scions lined the starboard rail, watching as
their sea voyage came to an end. They were behind schedule, the sun well up. Humphrey was eager to get everyone ashore.
“We’ve got a lot to do, my friends,” he said. “Summer, once the bus and Jeep are offloaded, I want you back here rigging the ship to sink.”
All the girl’s enthusiasm drained away. If Humphrey didn’t know better, he would have sworn she was blinking away tears. She had gotten attached to the rusty bucket of a ship, he supposed.
But there was no other choice. A fleet of military ships was searching for Aphrodite. If a plane spotted it, the Scions would be captured and dragged back to St. Vitus. And then they’d have no chance to escape the fate Dr. Carlhagen had planned for them.
Orson expertly guided the ship forward, cutting the throttle so that it coasted toward the pier. “You better get some kids ready to secure us.”
“Secure us?” Humphrey said. “You said there weren’t armed guards on this island.”
Summer gave Humphrey a look. “He means secure us to the pier.” She snatched up the P.A. mic. “Teams one and two report to starboard hatches. Prepare lines.”
“You better keep the rest onboard for a moment,” Wanda said, “or we’re going to have chaos in that town.”
Summer handed Humphrey the mic. He raised it to his lips. “All Scions not part of teams one and two stay aboard until further notice.” He returned the mic to its holder. Wanda was right. The Scions were easy to manage all locked aboard the ship. But if he set them loose in that ruin of a town, someone was going to get lost or hurt.
“Orson, take Summer and Elias to fetch the crane.”
Orson grunted. “It don’t need three drivers.”
Humphrey didn’t bother responding. Orson knew why Humphrey was sending Summer along. And since Elias seemed to be in love with Summer, he had no doubt the boy would rain pain on Orson’s head if he tried to harm the girl.
Humphrey bent to Wanda’s ear. “Elias is healed now, right?”
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