I don’t realize I’ve wandered closer to the wall until I’m less than a foot away, trying to figure out which of my identicals I’m staring at.
Isolated in that featureless concrete room, identically dressed with nothing to do but sit and stare at the floor, they’ve become what the rest of the world believes us to be. Indistinguishable. Interchangeable. Unworthy of notice or consideration on an individual basis.
Still…“They’re alive.” My amazement and relief are quickly eclipsed by confusion. Distrust. I turn to Lorna. “How is this possible?”
“The Administrator lied.” Trigger steps up to my side, studying the screen. “That shouldn’t be much of a surprise, considering that she’s lied to us about everything else. But this is…”
“Unbelievable,” I finish for him.
He nods. “Yet at the same time, it makes sense. There’s nothing wrong with your identicals. She had to tell us they’d been recalled, to keep us all believing that breaking any rule could get us killed. But that’s no reason to throw away the profit from nearly five thousand sales.” He turns to Lorna. “That’s it, right? She’s still going to sell them?”
“Probably at a discount, because they missed out on that final year of training,” Lorna says. “But that’s better than the loss she’d take from actually having them euthanized.”
Waverly groans, and her mother shoots her a censuring glance. They don’t want us to see how badly it upsets her to know there are still five thousand copies of her—of me—alive and well out there.
“Why are you showing us this?” I turn back to the screen. I’m mesmerized by it. “How would me helping Waverly benefit the rest of my identicals?”
“If you cooperate—if you donate your hormones and learn to be Waverly on camera—you have my word that I will buy all 4,999 of your identicals.”
Waverly stares at her mother, aghast, but Lorna doesn’t seem to notice.
I refocus on her, trying to understand. “You couldn’t possibly need that many trade laborers.”
“I wouldn’t be buying them as servants. I would be buying their freedom.” She shrugs. “After all, they’re my flesh and blood too.” But her tone lacks the conviction of her words.
“Mom, what are you—? Where would we—?” Waverly can’t seem to finish a thought, yet I know exactly what she’s asking.
“I don’t know yet,” Lorna admits, and that feels like the most honest thing I’ve heard her say. “We can’t bring them to Mountainside, of course. No one can ever know about them. But maybe we could build someplace for them in the wild. Their own little secret clone town.” She sets her tablet in her lap, but leaves the live feed open on the wall, so I can see what she’s offering. What I could be giving the sisters I thought I’d lost. “If you agree, we could start the project next week. The construction crews would never have to know what they’re building. And once you’ve done what you can for Waverly, you can join them.”
I can hardly even process what she’s offering. Life. Freedom. Community. We could have the future the Administrator told us we’d be getting, without the lies of Lakeview.
Without Trigger.
And without exposing the true nature of Lakeview to its residents. Shining light on the compound would mean exposing Waverly as a clone, and her mother’s sudden generosity would evaporate—at best.
I’ll have to choose. Life and liberty for my identicals and me, while Lakeview remains a training center for slaves, or returning to Lakeview in handcuffs, with Trigger, for a slim chance of exposing the Administrator’s lies to my fellow clones. And a strong chance of execution for us both.
“May we have some time to discuss?” I’m far from sure we can trust Lorna.
“Of course.” She gestures for us to follow her toward the door. “But I’ll need to know by dinner. There will be a lot of preparations to make and plans to set in motion, either way.”
“What’s the alternative?” Trigger asks, without moving to follow her. “If Dahlia says no, what will happen to her identicals?”
Lorna’s smooth forehead wrinkles as she considers. “I need some time to think about that as well, if you don’t mind.”
I do mind. How can I weigh my options if I don’t fully understand the repercussions? But I’m not in a position to make demands. I’ve never been in that position.
“I’ll take you both back to Dahlia’s room and have some food brought up.” Lorna gestures toward the door, and as Trigger and I comply, she glances at her daughter. “I’ll have lunch sent up for us as well, but put on a long-sleeved blouse, please. You can’t afford to walk around with your arm uncovered, even here.”
I can’t tell how much of this Waverly is processing. But as Lorna peeks into the hall to make sure no one’s around to see us, my clone closes the live video window with an angry swipe of one hand.
* * *
The moment we’re alone in the blue bedroom, Trigger disables the outgoing audio feeds, so no one can hear us or record anything we say. “I activated an alarm to let us know if anyone turns the audio back on,” he tells me.
“Clever. What about the video?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want to mess with anything other than the audio for now, because the more I interfere with the system, the greater the chances of someone noticing what I’ve done and reversing it.”
Within minutes, the door opens to reveal a clone in a gray servant’s uniform, carrying a tray that holds two covered dishes and two glasses of ice water. The name tag pinned to her shirt reads Julienne 20, and I recognize her face from a class of manual laborers that graduated two years ago. But I can’t tell whether she recognizes me or Trigger because she never looks up from the floor. Nor does she speak a single word. She just sets the tray on the dresser, moving as if she were in a mental fog.
“Julienne 20?” I say.
She turns toward me, but doesn’t look up. She still hasn’t seen my face. “How may I serve you?”
Her question gives me chills. It has the feel of the prescribed greetings in Lakeview, which were the only things we were permitted to say to members of another bureau.
This is all Julienne 20 is allowed to say to us, unless her duties require additional communication. Yet the Whitmores, the Chapmans, and the camera crews may say whatever they like to one another. And to the clones who work here.
The disparity sits like a lump in my throat—I can’t swallow it.
“I don’t need anything. Thank you,” I say, still puzzling through the discrepancy.
Julienne leaves, and Trigger uncovers the dishes, then sets the heavy tray on the end of the big blue bed, because there’s no table in this room. We both climb onto the tall mattress and sit cross-legged with the lunch tray between us. Each plate holds a large serving of chicken and pasta in red sauce, which doesn’t seem to cool off no matter how long I stare at my food instead of eating it.
I should be starving, but watching Julienne serve lunch has killed my appetite. I grew up alongside manual laborers on the training ground, and they were as aware and sociable as the rest of us—nothing like the withdrawn woman who just left the blue room, seemingly unaware of anything going on around her.
“So…,” Trigger begins as he contemplates his food.
I spear a piece of rotini and a chunk of tomato on my fork. “Do you think we can trust Lorna?”
“No.” He dips a piece of his garlic bread in a smear of red sauce, then eats it. “Her ‘clone town’ in the wild is as much of a lie as Lakeview ever was.”
“So whether I cooperate or not, there’s nothing stopping the Administrator from selling my identicals.”
“Lorna is what’s stopping that from happening.” Trigger spears three pieces of pasta and a cube of sautéed chicken on his fork. “She won’t let them go to sale and expose her daughter. But there’s nothing stopping her from buy
ing and killing them all if you don’t play along.”
“You think she would just murder them?”
Trigger’s fork goes still. “I think that if she buys them, she will own them, and she can and will do whatever she believes is necessary to protect Waverly.”
“Which means I’m going to have to play along.” I push pasta around in the sauce on my plate, but can’t bring myself to take a bite. “And while I’m pretending to be Waverly, you and I can work on a plan. Some way to keep my identicals safe permanently.”
“Dahlia…”
“No. You’re staying. That’s my demand, in exchange for my cooperation.”
Trigger frowns as he chews his food. “Don’t get your hopes up.” But it feels like there’s something more he wants to say.
“What’s wrong?”
He meets my gaze over the lunch tray. “I agree that this is the best way forward. Possibly the only way, for now. But pretending you’re Waverly means pretending you’re going to marry Hennessy.” He sounds disappointed. Hurt. “It means spending time with him and pretending that’s where you want to be. As badly as I want to be here with you, I’m not looking forward to seeing that.”
“Trigger, pretending is all it will be.”
“You can’t know that for sure,” he insists. “I’m the only guy you’ve ever spent any time with. The only guy you’ve ever kissed. So I guess I’m worried that it isn’t actually me you like. That maybe what you really like is having the option to…fraternize. And that’s understandable—”
“No.” I push the tray out of the way and scoot closer to him on the foot of the bed. “That’s not true. I spent time with Hennessy at Seren’s party, and I felt nothing for him. He didn’t smuggle wild peanuts into the city so I could taste them fresh from the ground. He didn’t sneak into the equipment shed to kiss me. He didn’t risk his life to help me escape from Lakeview. That was you.” I run my fingers along his chin, and though we’ve spent the past two days together and have been free from Lakeview’s rules for at least eighteen hours, that contact still feels daring. Still makes my pulse race. As does the admission I lean forward to whisper into his ear, so that he can’t see the self-conscious flush in my cheeks. “I only want to kiss you.”
Trigger slides his hand around my neck and his fingers into my hair. He pulls me closer and his mouth presses against mine, sucking gently on my lower lip until my mouth opens. His head tilts, giving us a better angle, and this time when his tongue sweeps into my mouth I greet it with my own.
He groans and pulls away for a second. “The only good thing about this place is that we seem to be allowed to do this.” Then his mouth is on mine again, and suddenly I’m fascinated with his lower lip. With tasting it. Feeling it between my teeth, for one teasing second before—
The door opens with a whisper, and we jerk apart. My face flames, and I suck in a startled breath. Trigger looks confused for a second before we both turn to see Waverly’s father standing in the doorway.
“Hello. I’m Dane Whitmore.” His gaze travels to Trigger, then back to me, and for a second, I’m afraid that maybe we’re not allowed to kiss here either. That maybe I’ve ruined any chance of keeping Trigger with me. “I’m sorry.” Wrinkles appear on his forehead and he looks flustered. “I guess I should have knocked. I just…I had to see you for myself.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever heard an adult apologize.
“You’ve already seen me.” I hold up my left hand, and the unbuttoned cuff of my borrowed blouse slides down to expose the fresh tattoo, slightly swollen beneath the clear film protecting it.
“So I heard.” He glances at the ink. “But this morning, I didn’t realize…”
Trigger slides off the bed onto his feet while Mr. Whitmore eyes me with a more open curiosity than either Waverly or her mother did when we met. His interest seems unencumbered by either dread or fear. He seems, quite simply, intrigued.
“I can’t believe it,” he says. “Even though I’m looking right at you.”
“I don’t really understand that.” I stand and venture a little closer, staring at him as frankly as he’s staring at me, because he doesn’t seem to mind. “You’re the first father I’ve ever met, but you see clones every day, right? Here in your home? Working in Mountainside? Patrolling the city wall?”
“Yes.” His gaze seems caught on my face. “But that’s different. The clones working among us fade into the background by design.”
He strikes me as honest and uncalculating in a way that neither his wife nor his daughter seems to be, but the casual disregard in his words ignites an ache deep inside me.
“Yet somehow, in spite of her origin, Waverly stands out in any room. And based on the fact that you made it out of Lakeview in one piece, I’m guessing the same is true of you.”
Mr. Whitmore clearly means that as a compliment, yet the idea of standing out still sends a shiver up my spine, after a lifetime of belief that getting noticed is dangerous. That being different means being flawed, and that flawed genomes must be recalled.
“Are you…?” He pushes the sleeves of his sweater up and crosses his arms over his chest. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything I can get you?”
I must look puzzled by his question, because he glances around the room briefly before his gaze is drawn back to my face. “I’m sure Waverly has clothes that will fit you, and I’m pretty sure some of them have never been worn. But if there’s anything else you need, please let me know.”
I glance at Trigger and find him staring at Waverly’s father’s forearms. At what we can see of them, folded over the front of his sweater. “May I see your ink?” Trigger points, and I realize he couldn’t have actually seen the bonding ceremony from his position in the hall.
Mr. Whitmore unfolds his arms and looks at them as if he were hardly aware of the ink on them until it was pointed out. “Oh. Of course.”
He extends his left forearm, and we step closer to study a beautiful scrolling pattern, about two inches in diameter. In the center of the design, made out of those very swirls, is a six-digit number, divided into three sets of two figures. “It’s the day Lorna and I got married. She has one just like it.”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the design. I saw it in the library, of course, and I’ve seen its mate on Lorna’s arm, but up close, though the design doesn’t swirl with color, it’s quite stunning.
“We often get temporary ink to commemorate a special occasion. A birthday or graduation,” he explains. “But for a wedding, the birth of a child, or the loss of a loved one, we use permanent ink.” He holds out his other arm and shows us another elegantly drawn date, this one more than eighteen years ago.
“Waverly’s…birth?” I guess, though the word still feels odd on my tongue.
He nods. “One of the best days of my life. And this one is my mother’s death, last year.” He pushes his sleeve up farther to show me another date.
“Because it takes a couple of weeks to heal, union ink is usually done well before the ceremony so there won’t be any swelling in the pictures,” Mr. Whitmore explains as he rolls down his sleeves. “These days, the inking itself has become one of the pre-wedding events, and Waverly and Hennessy were very excited about the special matching designs they had commissioned.”
“We have matching designs.” Trigger holds up his right forearm and lifts mine, showing Waverly’s father our bar codes. Our ink marks us as property, to be bought and sold.
Mr. Whitmore shifts on his feet, as if the reality of our origin hadn’t really sunk in until that moment. “Yes, well, this is somewhat different.”
I wonder if it’s occurred to him yet that I’ve now received two ink designs originally intended for his daughter. And that if not for a case of mistaken identity when we were little more than a handful of cells, she might have
wound up cleaning his floors, rather than bearing his name.
I closed the video feed when everyone left my room, and I had no intention of reopening it. Yet here I am again, staring at the screen, where I’ve been studying Dahlia’s identicals—my identicals—for twenty minutes. Because of the size of the screen, I’m seeing them at their true height. My height. The feed is clear enough that I can see the striations in their brown eyes. The seams in their gray uniforms.
If the video weren’t being shot from overhead, it’d be easy to forget that I’m not just looking through a doorway into the next room.
I can’t quite wrap my mind around how bizarre this really is. Hearing that I once had five thousand identicals was unsettling and alarming, but seeing them? Even just a few of them? It’s like looking into a carnival mirror full of reflections that refuse to play their part. To mimic my movements. Though the truth is that they’re hardly moving at all.
They might be sedated.
Yesterday, the thought of a room full of sedated servants-in-training probably wouldn’t have bothered me. But now? Knowing that I was supposed to be one of them?
Someone knocks on my bedroom door, and I swipe the video window closed again as my mother comes in. Behind her, a servant named Julienne 20 is carrying a lunch tray. I watch the clone as she crosses my bedroom to set the tray on the table by the window, and for the first time in the two years we’ve had her, I wonder what her life is like. What her life was like before she was a servant.
She’s only four years older than Dahlia. Did they know each other on the clone compound?
Would I have known Julienne 20 if I’d grown up there, instead of here?
“I spoke to the Caruthers sisters, and there’s a little bit of good news,” my mother says as Julienne removes the plates from the tray, then the domes from the plates. She stacks the domes on the tray and carries the whole thing into the hall.
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