Hennessy shrugs. “Well, it’s not like she would have paraded them in front of us.”
“It doesn’t do us any good to support local businesses if those local businesses aren’t employing local citizens!”
“You want to cancel the order? I’m sure there’s at least one florist left in the city who hires citizens.”
I sigh. “It’s a little late now. But we have to vet better next time.”
“Doesn’t that make us a little hypocritical?” Hennessy says. “Considering that both of our houses are staffed by clones?”
“Those are our parents’ houses,” I point out. Then I take a deep breath and plunge in. “I can’t have clones in our house, Hennessy. I just…can’t. Not knowing what I know.”
He takes my hand again. “Whatever you want is fine with me. But you know my dad already bought our household staff as a wedding gift. They’re in transition now.” He hesitates, and I understand what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth again. “What’s going to happen to them? Best-case scenario? Sold to someone else?”
Refusing to take the clones won’t be helping them. “Okay. I’m going to have to think about that.”
“So what’s the plan for Dahlia and Trigger?” Hennessy says as our car pulls through the gate in front of my house. “What are you guys going to do with them after you get your ink?”
“It looks like they’ll be secret houseguests for a while. My dad says I should treat Dahlia like a sister, but my mom thinks she might be useful on the medical front.” I don’t want to go into any more detail, because this doesn’t feel like the best time to tell him that I’ll never be able to give him kids on my own. But I’m not going to lie to Hennessy. I’m not that much like my mother. “Because in theory we have identical physiology.”
Hennessy meets my gaze, as if he’s waiting for more. Then he takes my hand. “Waverly. I know you’re infertile.”
I hold my breath. “You do?”
He nods. “The Lakeview catalog says clones are designed that way. I didn’t think twice about that until Dahlia showed up. Then the problems you’ve been having suddenly made sense.”
Did everyone figure that out before I did?
I clench my teeth, determined not to cry anymore. Tears never solve anything. “My mom thinks we can fix it. She thinks Dahlia’s hormones will help me—”
“Waverly.” Hennessy lays one hand along my jaw, then leans in to kiss me. “It doesn’t matter to me.” He shrugs. “We were going to adopt anyway. There are plenty of babies out there whose parents can’t afford to keep them, and we’ll have plenty of room.”
“But your parents will—”
“Screw my parents. Screw yours, if they can’t be happy for us in whatever decision we make.”
“Thank you.” I kiss him again. I kind of want to crawl into his lap, even with the car still moving. “My mom thinks we can fix this, but it’s good to know that even if we can’t, you’re still with me.”
“There’s no place I’d rather be.” Hennessy clears his throat and his gaze seems to be searching mine for something. “Waverly, I don’t care about the fertility issue, but I am worried about that other thing.”
A chill washes over me at his suddenly somber tone. “What other thing?”
“Your expiration date.”
“Pause,” I say, and the image of Waverly freezes on the e-glass.
My clone smiles out at me from the steeply sloped streets of Mountainside, holding the small ceremonial shovel she’s just used to “break ground” on a new facility intended to provide food and shelter for the homeless.
I’ve seen six episodes of Waverly’s show since breakfast, but this is the first time I’ve seen her give the camera a real smile. She’s having fun digging in a pile of loose dirt with Hennessy, even though the wind keeps whipping hair into her face and her ridiculously high heels are sinking into the ground.
“Mirror,” I say, and a reflective box opens in another window next to the video feed. I smile into it, trying to imitate Waverly’s expression. Her carefree posture. The easy way she balances in shoes that make me feel too tall and clumsy.
“Play.”
The video resumes, and Waverly’s laughter rings out across the room. She practically glows in the sunlight. She’s so different on camera than she is in private. In public, she is gracious, and kind, and quick to smile. She laughs at herself when she does something clumsy. She doesn’t trip over her own shoes, as I’ve already done twice today. She gets ice cream on her nose and glances at it, cross-eyed, until Hennessy kisses the smudge of chocolate away.
I wish I could meet that on-camera Waverly. And I really wish I could figure out how to be her.
The door slides open without warning, and I pause the video again as Trigger follows Lorna into the blue room.
She looks pleased to see that I’ve been studying Waverly’s show, yet somehow she doesn’t look particularly pleased with me. “Lunch will be here in half an hour. Also, I wanted to let you know that I’ve just heard back from Waverly’s endocrinologist, who’s agreed to help us under strict confidentiality. He thinks there’s a good chance we can design a hormone therapy for her, using your donation. Or by using your donation as the model for an exact chemical replica of the hormones she needs. He’ll be here tonight to do an initial exam and take a little blood for testing.”
I glance at Trigger, but he seems as confused as I am.
“What kind of hormones do you need from me, exactly?” We didn’t learn much about hormones in class because gardening doesn’t require detailed knowledge of human physiology. “Why can’t Waverly’s body make them?”
Lorna crosses her arms over her chest, as if it’s unreasonable of me to want to know what she plans to remove from my body. “Clones are designed with a hormonal deficiency that those of us conceived the normal, natural way don’t have.”
I frown at her. “Where we come from, genetic design is the normal way.”
“Yes, but that’s not the way the rest of the world works. And genetic design is, by definition, unnatural. Nature cannot make five thousand identical copies of anything.”
“That’s why genetic design exists,” Trigger tells her. “To improve upon nature.”
Her left brow arches in mild amusement. “They teach you that you’re an improvement upon nature?”
“It’s true,” I insist as an unexpected bolt of pride straightens my spine. “Variances and mutations in nature lead to disease and dysfunction. To irregularities, which hamper efficiency.” Yet even as I speak truths that have defined my entire existence, I am well aware that my identicals were all ripped from their lives and locked up in concrete rooms because I’d turned out not to fit that perfectly efficient mold on a genetic level.
What would the Administrator do with me if Lorna gave me back to her? Would she try to sell me too? Even though I’m not a clone? Could she do that? I don’t operate in a compliant mental fog, like Julienne 20 does. But then, neither do any of the clones in Lakeview.
“What’s wrong with Julienne 20?” I blurt out, and Lorna looks surprised by the subject change. “Why doesn’t she ever look directly at anyone? The clones we saw on our way through town acted the same way. Like they were only half-awake.” Yet somehow awake enough to work.
Lorna shrugs. “They all come that way. Until I met you, I assumed that’s how all laborers were designed.”
“Well, it’s not. We’re all normal in Lakeview,” Trigger tells her.
My mind spins, searching for a rational explanation. “It can’t be genetic, because Waverly is a clone raised like an individual, and she’s not like that. It can’t be environmental, because I’m an individual raised as a clone, and I’m not like that. Trigger’s a clone raised as a clone, and he’s not like that. So what’s going on with the clones in this city?”
�
��It must be something to do with the transition process. All I know is that this is what they’re like when they get here.” Lorna leans with one hip against the desk near the door and crosses her arms. “But to answer your original question, clones are designed to produce too little of the hormones required for a body to fully mature, in a reproductive sense. That deficiency is mild, but when coupled with a suppressive substance served in their food, it keeps clones infertile and largely uninterested in physical relationships.”
Her explanation triggers an epiphany for me, like someone’s turned on the light in a dark room. This is why none of my identicals were attracted to anyone the way I feel drawn toward Trigger. Why the way I want to touch him at random moments felt so out of place.
But he looks unconvinced. “Cadets must lack this deficiency. We’re allowed to…fraternize.”
“Oh.” Lorna glances from him to me, then back, as if she’s just made some kind of mental connection. “It makes sense that soldiers would be the exception. Your job requires the kind of strength and bulk that can’t be achieved without natural hormonal levels. And you…” Her gaze narrows on me. “You’re not a clone, so you’re perfectly functional. Or you will be, once those hormonal suppressants have cleared from your system.”
That last bit, she seems to be saying to herself. And she offers no explanation.
“You and Waverly are opposite sides of the same coin. She’s suffering from the genetic hormonal deficiency you were spared, but she hasn’t been fed a lifetime of the suppressive substance in her food, which you and her other identicals were. The result seems to be that she developed normal interests, but abnormal physical capabilities.”
I frown, trying to puzzle through several new concepts. “Meaning…?”
“Meaning her body produces enough hormones for her to feel attraction—and love—for Hennessy, but not enough to enable them to have a child of their own.”
To have a…?
Of course she would want a child with her future husband. That’s normal here. Yet the thought of one of my identicals incubating a baby inside her body is almost too bizarre to even imagine.
But Lorna is still talking.
“Once you’ve been here eating regular food long enough for the suppressants to leave your system, your hormone levels should rise into the healthy range, which will kick-start a late but hopefully normal pubescence. At which point an infusion of your hormones could do the same thing for Waverly, allowing her at least a limited period of fertility. So the short answer to your question is that Waverly needs the hormones your body will soon begin to produce in order to conceive and carry a child.”
Wow.
I blink at her, trying to process everything I’ve just heard. So many questions are rattling around in my head that it’s difficult to focus on any of them.
“How long does it take to incubate a baby the ‘natural’ way?” I’m not sure that was covered in any of my few history or biology lessons.
“Pregnancy is nine months, unless something goes wrong. I don’t know how long the hormone therapy would take to develop, or how long she’d need to be on it in preparation, but of course, you and Trigger would both remain our guests the entire time.”
Yet coming from her mouth, the word guests feels more like prisoners.
As Hennessy’s car rolls through the gate and onto the street, I head into the house. He wanted to come in with me. But my mother owes me answers, and I’m not sure I want him to hear them before I’ve had a chance to process them on my own.
My heels click on marble as I head for the back of the first floor, and though my steps sound steady, my hands are shaking as I wave open my mother’s office door. “Mom? How could you not tell me I’m going to die at twenty-eight?”
Startled, she turns toward me from the center of the room, and for a moment, she only stares at me, her expression carefully guarded. “Waverly.” She extends one arm toward her e-glass. “Say hello to Amelia Locke.”
Oops.
I step into the room, cringing, and find the Administrator staring out at me from the wall screen, her severe features several times larger than they would be in person. Which makes her look even more intimidating. “Hi.” I stand there like an idiot, not sure what to do with my still-trembling hands. “Sorry, Mom. I didn’t know you were on a call.” And suddenly I realize how disastrous my interruption would have been if she’d been speaking with anyone else when I burst in and basically outed myself as a clone.
The Administrator turns to my mother. “She didn’t know?”
“Waverly, have a seat.” My mother opens a cabinet and pulls out a chilled bottle of water from the beverage refrigerator inside. “I wanted to have a solution before I told you about the problem.” She hands me the bottle and sits next to me.
“And by problem, you mean the fact that I’m just going to drop dead at twenty-eight?”
“Not exactly. Clones come with expiration dates.” On-screen, the Administrator leans back in her chair. “Typically ten years from the date of maturity.”
“An expiration date.” I heave a bitter huff. “As if I’m suddenly going to be less effective when I turn twenty-eight. Like an out-of-date prescription. Or a stale box of crackers.”
My mother shoots me a look, but the Administrator seems unfazed.
“Actually, in theory, it is kind of like that. Clones are genetically engineered so that a vital neurological protein degrades at a fairly rapid rate.” The Administrator shrugs. “No one drops dead at the age of twenty-eight, but that is generally the time when peak performance as an employee is no longer possible. Shortly thereafter, the organs begin to fail, and the entire process gets kind of messy. Which is why Lakeview offers a ‘retirement’ service, which comes with a five percent discount on any new clones bought as a replacement for those being removed from service.”
A terrifying numbness rolls over me as the Administrator’s words echo through my head. Retirement service. So when we retired our previous staff members two years ago, they were euthanized? How could I not have realized? I mean, it’s not like retirement could possibly mean sipping drinks on the beach for a clone. Or for me…
“I’m going to die at twenty-eight.” I look up at my mother. “What’s the point of hormone therapy? Why does it matter if I can have a baby if I won’t live long enough to raise it?”
“I spoke to Dr. Foster about hormone therapy this morning, and while I had his attention, I also asked about gene therapy. It sounds like there may be a way to fix this.”
“Dr. Foster’s an endocrinologist. He knows nothing about genes.” I twist the top off my water bottle, and a little spills over the neck to roll down my hand. “What we really need is the geneticist who designed me.”
“That’s what Amelia and I were just discussing,” my mother says.
On-screen, the Administrator touches the top of her desk and when it fogs over, I realize the entire surface is e-glass, like my dad’s. She taps through a menu and opens a document. Her eyes move back and forth as she scans it. “My soldiers tracked Wexler 42 several miles into the wild and they believe they’re closing in on him.”
“Wait.” I set my water on the end table. “Wexler 42 is forty-two years old, right? Why didn’t he die at twenty-eight?”
The Administrator leans back in her desk chair. “Management and specialist clones, including medical staff and geneticists, spend their entire lives on the Lakeview compound. They’re engineered to live longer so I get more use out of them.”
“Then why design the rest to die so young?” I ask. “Dahlia says everything in Lakeview is superefficient, but that sounds like a huge waste of resources to me.”
The Administrator’s left brow rises. “The expiration date means my customers come back every ten years instead of every forty or so. That’s four times the profit in the same time period.” Her arrogant smile
is cold enough to give me chills. “I’d call that pretty efficient.”
* * *
“Dahlia and Trigger don’t know about the expiration date, do they?” I ask as I follow my mother up the stairs.
“No, and they don’t need to, at least for the moment.”
“Then we shouldn’t talk about it in the house. If Trigger can turn off the audio feed in Dahlia’s room, he can probably access the audio feeds from other rooms. He could be listening to anything, anytime.”
She gives me a smug smile. “While he was having lunch in Dahlia’s room, I had the screen in his disconnected. The gray room is now a digital dark zone—our own little version of Lakeview. Dahlia will be coming to him for lunch from now on, and he isn’t allowed out of the gray room without my express permission.”
I should feel bad about him being on lockdown. But I don’t.
We pick Dahlia up from her room, then head into the basement, past the laundry facilities, storage, and a wine cellar, into the exam room my parents had built when it became clear I had medical issues that shouldn’t be overheard by other patients and staff in a normal doctor’s office.
“I can’t get ahold of Trigger on the screen in my room,” Dahlia says, standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor while I hop onto the heated exam table where I’ve received largely ineffective hormone injections once a month for the past three years. “I think there may be an actual glitch.”
My mother smiles as she sits in one of the padded waiting room–style chairs. “I had his screen disconnected.”
Dahlia doesn’t ask for an explanation; she knows as well as I do why Trigger’s been locked out of the system. And locked into his room.
A few minutes later, our butler escorts Dr. Foster into the exam room. I’ve been seeing him since I was fifteen. If there’s any doctor who can be trusted, it’s him. Especially considering what my parents pay him.
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