It seems pain is the theme of all human interaction. For once in my life, I don’t want it.
Chapter Seventeen
By the third drink, Obadiah convinces me to dance. He’s asked me a hundred times to tell him what’s wrong but I don’t. I won’t. Not when it will cause only more pain. But I will dance. And continue the ruse. Until there’s an end.
We’ve just made it to the edges of the dance floor when the orchestra stops. Instruments in hand, they leave their seats and exit the stage.
“Showtime,” Obadiah mutters. I scan until I find where he’s looking. The huddle of men Titus was speaking to when we left are now dispersed. Two of them remain on the stage, facing the crowd. One of them holds a microphone and seems to be waiting for the room to quiet.
I scan the faces below the stage and find Titus among a small crowd standing near the stairs. His head is bent toward Taylor’s dad in some private conversation. Lines crease the edges of his mouth in a decided frown. His shoulders are set and his hands are fisted at his sides. I’ve never seen him show such outward aggression in public.
Obadiah’s hand slips under my arm, guiding me away. He leans close. “Let’s find somewhere more discreet to observe,” he whispers.
I let him lead me, unsteady on my own feet. At the back of the room, he holds out a chair at one of the empty dining tables. Both the table and chairs are draped in heavy white covers. I scoot in close, using the tablecloth as a blanket covering for my bared legs. I twist the lace on the hem of my dress nervously and wait.
The man with the microphone taps it twice and raises it to his mouth. “If I could have your attention, please? Thank you for your patience while we wait for some technical difficulties to be sorted with some members of the media.” He smiles a plastic politician smile.
Murmurs of hushed conversations circulate.
Anxiety builds, a tower of blocks being stacked in the center of my abdomen. I look at Obadiah. He smiles tightly back at me.
I scan the room for Linc but he’s nowhere to be found. Probably huddled behind some shrub or another. I can feel him here somewhere and that puts me slightly more at ease. Although, I have a feeling whatever’s coming next is something even he can’t shield me from.
I try to breathe normally and avert my gaze from any curious glances. A waiter approaches with a tray of filled champagne flutes. “A drink, miss?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you.” I take the offered glass and sip the fizzy liquid.
The speakers buzz with low feedback and then abruptly go silent. The man onstage leans down to speak with someone below. He nods and raises the microphone again. “I think we’re ready,” he announces.
The crowd claps—out of impatience, I think.
“Who is that man?” I ask Obadiah.
“The one with the mic?” Obadiah asks. I nod. “Lucas Snidd. Executive assistant and press secretary to the President. Also, world’s biggest brown-noser.”
“What’s a brown-noser?” I ask.
“A suck-up.” At my blank look, he shakes his head. “Never mind.”
The clapping dies away and the man onstage, Lucas Snidd, raises his microphone and continues. “I want to thank you all for coming tonight. We’re very excited to share our announcement with you. But first, we’re honored to hear from a very important man. Please welcome the Director of Homeland Security, Mr. David Bruno.”
Everyone claps as the microphone is handed to the second man on stage. He smiles, revealing two front crooked teeth, and raises a hand in acknowledgment of the applause. It dies off faster than before. People are antsy.
“Thank you all and welcome. As Mr. Snidd said, we are excited to share our announcement with you, but first, I’d like to talk to you about the security of your personal identity. It’s an issue that bears a larger look and, at Homeland Security, we’re all about the big picture. Security for the whole of our nation.”
Obadiah snorts.
Mr. Bruno continues, “As many of you know, over the past eighteen months, identity fraud on a person-to-person basis has become one of the most prolific crimes leading up to the financial crash. A trigger, if you will. It became not only more prevalent in those years leading up, but also more high-tech and more complex to circumvent. Our nation, as well as many others, has been a hard-hit target. Even after the crash, identity theft is still a major problem in our society. Some of the culprits are foreign, but more and more often since the crash and subsequent financial rebuild, many of these crimes have been committed domestically.
“We’ve been unable to track many of the perpetrators simply due to their own financial ineptitude. To be frank, most of these perpetrators are homeless to begin with, making it harder to track them down.” His top lip curls slightly when he says this and a ripple of nasty agreement makes its way across the crowd. My mouth tightens and I force my expression to remain blank.
Amid the voices he booms into the microphone, “It has to stop.”
The crowd hushes, waiting to hear what he’ll say next. The thread of worry that has been weaving its way through my organs and deeper into my gut tightens.
“Twenty-six months ago, a group was formed. It was an unofficial meeting of like-minded men. All of whom are in a position and with resources at their disposal to help forward our mission. As a unit and a government, we understand we can’t hope to stamp out any and all threats—at least not yet. The collective mission and immediate goal of the group formed is to eradicate opportunity. By making it more difficult for these perpetrators to successfully steal identities, we increase their chances of mistakes, thereby increasing our opportunities for capture. It is with great satisfaction that I stand before you tonight and tell you, we believe we’ve found a way to do that, thanks to the help of Titus Rogen.”
Mr. Bruno steps back and hands the microphone to Mr. Snidd. The crowd erupts in applause. Through the haze of my own growing dread, I hear a few whistles near the front. Probably the media. The rest of this group is too stiff to whistle.
A few reporters turn and point their camera in my direction. I smile and wave with a dainty twist of my wrist, averting my eyes against the flashes.
Segregation. Is this what Taylor was talking about? Is it happening now?
A hand closes over mine and I smile at Obadiah. “You okay?” he asks for the millionth time.
I nod absently and sip my drink.
Obadiah doesn’t buy it. I didn’t expect him to. He leans closer, his voice hushed. “Look, it’s government. I’ve been neck-deep in it my whole life. If there’s one thing I know about government, it’s that it takes forever,” he says, drawing out the last word. “Stop worrying. We’ll beat them to the punch and they won’t know what hit ‘em.” He pats my hand and slides away before I can argue.
I tell myself he’s right. To calm down. To breathe.
I scan for Linc again—it would be better if I could see him—but I can’t find him anywhere.
On the stage, Mr. Snidd takes his place in the spotlight and speaks into the microphone. “Thank you very much, Mr. Director.” He tosses an approving smile at Mr. Bruno and returns his attention to the group near the base of the stage. “Now, before we reveal our action plan, we’ll open the floor up for just a few questions.”
Dozens of hands shoot into the air and wriggle back and forth. It reminds me of clips of music concerts I saw once on television. Mr. Snidd points at one of them and the hands go down.
“Do you have a name for this group?” the reporter asks.
“Yes,”Mr. Snidd answers, looking pleased someone asked. “It’s called the AIP. The Alliance for Identity Protection. Next question?”
Mr. Snidd moves on to the next reporter with a quick arm and Obadiah snorts.
“What?” I ask.
“They call themselves AIPs? Seriously?” He shakes his head. “They make it way too easy.” At my blank expression he adds, “AIPs … As in, monkeys? Get it?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Obadiah clucks
his tongue. “They left a sense of humor out of the made-to-order DNA request, huh?”
“I have a sense of humor,” I shoot back, my chin rising at the insult. The urge to be Raven is strong; the jabs come easy with her. Obadiah’s brow shoots up and I can’t help myself. “For example, I think your haircut is hilarious.”
He reaches up to smooth his shiny onyx hair. “What’s wrong with my haircut?”
Guilt washes over me and my mouth twitches at the easy way he flusters. Just like Ida. A lump forms in my chest. “Nothing. Now, whose sense of humor is missing?” I say, but the bite has gone out of my voice.
Obadiah scowls and turns back to the show.
“… and these are just a few of the cases in which high-traffic identity theft has become commonplace in our society. We’re committed to stopping it by whatever means necessary. Otherwise, our entire population could be infiltrated by imposters and we wouldn’t even know it.”
Behind me someone snorts before it turns quickly to a cough. I search for the person who made it and almost miss him. He’s leaning against the wall between a large, leafy shrub in a pot bigger than my dresser and a serving cart overflowing with dirty dishes and empty champagne flutes. His white shirt almost makes him look like the help. Almost.
And even though I can’t see his eyes through the shadows of where he’s hiding, I know he’s watching me. My skin tingles with awareness.
“All right, hold your questions for now. There will be more time for that in a few moments.” Mr. Snidd smiles at the groans uttered by the media and gestures to someone off stage. “I’d like to introduce the man responsible for the solution we’re all proposing tonight. This is a man who has dedicated his life and career to improving the human condition and life span through science and, well, through his own God-given genius. We wouldn’t be where we are today without him. And so it’s only fitting that he be the one to share the details of this new program with you. Mr. Rogen, if you’ll come.”
Mr. Snidd moves aside and Titus makes his way up the stairs and onto the stage. He takes the microphone in his hand, his knuckles folding around the object in a way that makes my breath hitch. I can’t think past what he did to Ida. All I see are his hands closing over my throat. Or Ida’s. Or the throat of anyone who tries to thwart him. Obadiah, Linc, Lonnie. We’re all dangling so close to the precipice of his wrath with nowhere else to go, no one else—
“Ven?” Linc’s appearance at my side is surprising enough to snap me out of it.
He’s crouched beside my chair, his brows knitting in concern. He’s dropped his hands near his lap but his arm presses lightly against my hip and I’m glad for the contact. “Yes, I’m—I’m fine.”
But he’s not here to check on me. Not really. “They’re calling for you backstage,” he says.
“Oh.”
I rise, wobbly but managing, and follow him out. The crowd parts and then thins until we’re in a narrow hallway far from the glitzy lights and glimmering dresses. Up ahead, I spot men with suits surrounded by more men in black jackets and wired earpieces. Linc stops me before we can reach them. “You’re shaking,” he says.
“Am I?” I bite my lip and tune back into the speech Titus is giving. His voice is muffled by whatever thin walls separate us but the words are clear enough. The second they reach me, every molecule in me jerks to attention.
“The mark we’ve developed is a six-digit code that will be imprinted on the skin. It will identify you and match to a digital file that will include your medical history, your financial records, and countless other records that will make your identity much harder to copy or steal.” Titus pauses to smile. Flashes go off, a picture of smugness. “This is a process and design we’ve spent many months refining. We’ve had the top fashion experts give input toward the design, so don’t worry,” he says, sprinkling laughter into his voice, “It will be as trendy as the spring line, I can assure you.”
There is a pause and Titus allows a question. Despite all the urgings in me to run, I inch closer, needing to hear more.
“Why a six-digit number?” another voice asks. This one is fainter without the help of the microphone. I have to strain to hear. “I mean, can’t anyone figure out your number, tattoo it on their own body, and impersonate you that way?”
“Great question,” Titus says. His confidence dashes all of my hope at the point the reporter just made. “The mark will not only include a six-digit number specific only to you but also a small image of a tree. The ink for both images will be embedded with ultra-violet and high-sensor refractive ink. Think something akin to your thumbprint, which, by the way, used to be the primary method of unique identification until it too was hacked by the terrorists responsible for crashing our financial infrastructure. The mark I’ve designed, complete with embedded DNA coding that is more advanced than vein screening, is something not reproducible without my equipment.”
Murmurs circulate. They sound like agreements being made or some adding their two cents.
I inch closer, around a corner and up to the edges of a partition wall erected to keep the crowd out of the area Linc led me to. A woman on the fringes of the crowd turns to her neighbor and says, “My aunt’s second cousin said her entire bank account was wiped out at once. They took it all. Poor thing had to move to Eurasia with her daughter-in-law’s family and start over on a truffle farm. She feeds pigs now.”
“Baby Jesus …” The second woman crosses herself and bows her head. “So many of our kind reduced to serving others and laboring for a daily wage. What has this world come to? Those marauders deserve to hang for stealing from us.”
Both women take turns agreeing profusely with the other’s rants until Titus quiets the room again.
“Ven?” Linc hovers at my side, his body a solid reassurance.
“No,” I say, positive if I try to speak beyond the single word, I’ll lose it.
He doesn’t budge. I’m not aware enough of my own skin to decipher whether I’m shaking again. For all I know, I could be holding it together just fine. “Ven, let’s just—”
“No,” I repeat, louder this time. The two women I’ve been eyeing turn to investigate the noise. It’s enough to shut Linc up for the moment.
Not thinking. Not thinking. Not thinking.
“… Which is why we see an immediate need for this product,” Titus is saying, “and it’s also why we made sure we were ready to put it into action by the time we unveiled it. Alton, if you’ll come up here.” Titus gestures.
I shift and inch forward until I have a side view of the stage. The sight of Titus makes my skin crawl but I need to see. I need to know. Alton joins Titus on stage, working to roll his sleeve aside as he walks. Titus takes another question. He points, “Yes, you, in the unfortunate sweater.” He gets a few chuckles for that.
“And when will this mark become available?” asks the reporter in a timid voice.
“It already is,” Titus answers, gesturing with a flourish to the dark ink on Alton’s now exposed forearm.
The room erupts in a burst of awed voices and raised questions. Some of the media surges toward the stage for a closer look and are pushed back by security I didn’t notice before but appear in swarms now. The women I’d eavesdropped on earlier are buzzing to each other about the security this mark will provide but “oh my word, I hope they don’t use needles. Those things sting something awful.”
All of the voices reach my ears through a roaring tunnel. I stare at Alton, at the mark on his arm, and my cheeks blaze with heat. It spreads lower into my chest and stomach and then I can’t feel my hands. Still, I stare.
“Ven?” Linc whispers at my ear.
“I’m hot,” I hear myself say. This isn’t happening. But yes, it’s already happening. Alton. All along I thought he was one of us. But no, he’s only pretending. He’s imitating an Imitation. Is there anything worse?
I heave and my shoulders lurch. Nothing comes up.
“Ven!” Linc swings around to bend toward me.
Obadiah joins him. I didn’t even know he’d followed. Their brows wrinkle in matching worry.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I manage to say while still holding down the champagne that threatens to bubble its way up my esophagus.
“Get her coat,” Linc snaps at Obadiah.
“But they’re calling for her,” Obadiah whispers.
“Then get her coat fast,” Linc hisses back.
Obadiah spins away and disappears. There’s more being said on stage. I don’t want to hear it but I think I should. “Ven, look at me.”
Linc’s talking but, for once, I can’t bring myself to listen. For once, his voice isn’t enough to pull me back. “Linc, it’s too late. We’re too late,” I whisper. Despite the crowd and knowing full well what it’ll mean if I lose it here, my eyes well with tears.
“No, we’re not. It’s one guy. It’s one mark. We’ve got plenty of other options.” Linc’s voice is hardened steel, twice as determined as usual. Probably to counteract my desperation. I manage to blink the tears back.
Titus is speaking again, drowning out everything else. “… to show you what I mean, and to prove to you this mark is not only harmless, but also trendy, as I know some of you women are worried about, I’ve also tested the mark on my beautiful daughter. Raven, would you come out here please?”
I lock eyes with Linc. His are wide and just as panicked as mine.
“Raven?” Titus repeats. A hint of impatience shows through.
Around the corner, in the hall leading to the stage, there is movement between the suits. I catch a flash of blond hair before muscled shoulders obscure it.
“Linc?” I whisper uncertainly. He’s rigid as stone beside me, clearly undecided about what to do next.
“Ah, there she is,” Titus says in a smooth voice. Another flash of blonde, a sweep of fabric. The crowd claps and I realize someone has joined him onstage. Someone who, from my vantage point, is every inch a Raven. Someone who is not me.
“Shit,” Linc breathes as Titus makes a show of sweeping the girl’s hair aside and showing off a tattoo. I strain to see if her numbers match mine but my view is limited, the distance too far.
Deviation Page 20