The one with spirals shaved on his cheeks angles his body away from us, flight mode taking over. Pru lets go of her captive.
The man straightens, fights the urge to shake his aching wrist, eyes us both with pure malice, and backs away, taking his cronies with him.
Pru and I make eye contact. For just a second—a nanosecond—we share this victory.
“Get your act together, V. Whatever you might be planning in that brain of yours, know it will never work.” She starts walking toward the elevators.
Julius looks after her, then back at me. I wave him away, and he turns and skips off in Pru’s direction.
Lips pressed together, I turn the other way, the way the rude generics went, and decide to find a place I can distract myself from the thoughts badgering my mind. Pru is right. The Center will see if my thoughts go too far astray. Our thoughts are constantly collected, harvested for a later winnowing. Streams are the threshing. The Director reading my thoughts on Sundays is, perhaps, another kind of threshing. Surely he doesn’t look through a week’s worth of memories in an evening. But how does he sift the wheat from the chaff? What are the filters he applies when he reads my thoughts?
For a moment, I stand frozen, a stone in a rushing river of people, and think of my brain as a computer file. I imagine a blinking search bar over my head. A delete button to the left. I am just a click away from oblivion. Just like the first Marcus V.
Many of the faces in this crowd are partially dimmed by the glow of their projected t-screens that hold their entire world mere inches from their eyes. A helmet of information, shielding them from having to look at strangers. They see what they want to see. Only things that pertain to them. Their friends’ faces chat back at them from within their little helmet worlds. To them, nothing else exists. They wear a shield against the woes of reality.
For them, Pru said. For the humanists. For the ones not afraid to walk around unshielded, eyes open. For all the people out here, Pru said. I take a deep breath. Much is expected.
The eyes of the people not projecting their t-screens stick to me momentarily like static. When they see my shaved head, my black scrubs, the tiny nodes of my sensors cupping the back of my skull, they shift away, creating a small wake for the freak. Most say nothing, a kindness. Some whisper too loudly that “there’s a gen-eng” or “there’s one from the Center” or, I hear with a cringe, “there’s one of the demon creatures.”
After a few of these comments, a valve inside me bursts.
“Demon, eh?” I wheel on the offender, surprised to see a child, half my height, holding her mother’s hand. Her scream is so weak it is lost, but the terror on her face crushes all the compassion inside me into rage. How can someone so small hate me so much?
I lean over her, looking between this child and her petrified mother. “You think I’m evil because I wasn’t born like you?” I’m nearly panting. “I was made, like a computer program. Edited like a teleprompter”—I point at the nearest news screen flashing bold letters about an election—“till all the words were perfect. Does having one of those”—now I point hard at the mother, who has collected her girl in an embrace—“make you not evil?” I straighten, dropping my hand. “No. It does not.”
The mother, recovering now that I’m silent, sucks in a trembling breath, mutters something about a wretch and moves on. I’m already heading the opposite direction, fuming, ashamed of my outburst, but justifying myself in my head.
They only hate me because I’m so smart. Because I’m the evidence that they are less. We’ve been told this our entire lives. Then why does it always make me feel worse to remind them of this?
By the time I reach the entertainment pods, my heart rate has slowed. I’ll probably get wrist-slapped for that little outburst when the Center staff sees it in my thoughts. But I’ve been forced to skip plenty of meals along the way or do extra workouts till my muscles scream. I’ll be fine.
The movie I watch is atrocious, and my ears are still humming as I exit the dark pod back into the bustling mall. The two hours of entertainment did little to distract me. A man on a glide board clips my sleeve as he breezes past, oblivious to his near collision. An armed policeman strolls by, eyes flittering to everyone he passes. He sees me. With the slightest of hesitations, his hand automatically lifting just a hair toward his gun, he decides I am no threat to the safety of these people and turns his attention to the next man walking by.
My wristband tells me I have less than an hour remaining. Give up my little rebellion, Pru said. There are other things that I can do that are not expressly Codex-forbidden. I decide to take the elevator as far down as it can go, Dante descending. I do not fear what is down there, nor do I fear the inevitable yank on the leash when I stray too far. In fact, I’m hoping for it. That way I’ll know how closely they are watching my thoughts today, if someone in the Center is watching my live feed right now. Has the Director put some watchdog on me? Might as well find out.
The elevator speakers wail some unmelodic tantrum at the patrons gathered inside. A young girl finds a way to tap her foot to the non-beat. At least her t-screen helmet has kept her from noticing the gen-eng freak standing next to her. For that I am grateful. Some of the people out here are so unconscious of anyone or anything around them that a walking octopus could sidle up to them and they’d never know it, never see past their t-screen realities.
The shoppers come and go as the elevator stops at every floor. The clientele shifts noticeably as we descend. The oldest and the youngest disappear, and only the people that appear near my age remain. The teenagers. These generics all have glassy eyes, t-screened faces, or fidget like they’re covered in fleas. Not a one of them speaks to me, calls me a name, or even looks at me.
We spill off as the elevator dings its final stop. I’ve made it this far. No collectors have come for me yet. I think I’ll look around, see how long it takes for them to appear. The tram ride from the Center takes only five minutes. Five to call the tram back, five to return to the mall with my collector. If they saw me descend past the decent, well-lit shopping, I don’t have long.
If they’re watching me, I’ll soon know.
The walkway is no longer a balcony. The balconies stopped two floors up, hiding this level beneath layers of concrete. The lights are dim and shift between six or eight colors at random. It’s a little unnerving. The air down here is cool and musty. Even in the scientific age we live in, basements are damp. We need to work on that.
The nearest store—at least I think it is a type of store—has a broad red door, but it is closed. A man stands outside, arms clasped at his waist. He does not look at anyone. The ads are not as loud, coming in as whispers over the wide hallways. Most of the doors down here are closed, the signs cryptic or nonexistent. Whatever these people are selling, their clients already know.
“A Center rat, down here?”
I ignore this new antagonist, not bothering to look at his face.
“More like a sewer rat, then, I think.” His footsteps follow.
I move toward a silver door at the end of the first hallway. This one has a woman standing out front. Suited, with a bowtie. A tight red ponytail pulls at the corners of her pale face, making her painted lips look permanently turned up in a plastic smile. The footsteps of my pursuer speed up. This place will be my escape.
I step up to the woman, nod at the door, hoping to make it inside before those footsteps come closer.
She looks me up and down. “Welcome to Streamline Impressions,” she says and opens the door.
A glance over my shoulder confirms no one from the Center is here yet, just a young man with dark circles under his eyes. When he sees my foot cross the threshold, he stops walking toward me, turns, and stalks away.
My first observation is the smell of orchids. The water-sweet smell of potted flowers and wet soil draws my lungs out to capacity. The effect is instantly calming. Long-necked orchids point the way down a wide hallway floored with grey wooden planks. Two rows
of miniature shrubs flank the path ahead, water trickling down the walls at intervals. An underground garden.
Images of the Center’s garden floating above the earth spring to mind. I blink them away. The woman ahead of me approaches a desk at the end of the hall. A room opens up behind the desk, a few high-back chairs lining the walls. A waiting room. Behind the curved, silver desk, the words Streamline Impressions glow on the wall.
The redhead whips her ponytail around, facing me with a forced smile. “Denise will be right with you. She will get you all set up. Thank you for visiting Streamline Impressions!” She marches back to her post by the door, ponytail swinging.
I look at the empty desk, the chair, angled toward the left, that has recently been abandoned. My gaze drifts in the direction the vacated chair indicates. Three people sit in the waiting room, no t-screens hiding their faces. Their eyes are open, vacuous, unmoving. The cold air and their listless expressions prickle my skin.
A door clicks, then footsteps approach. Whipping my head around, I see that the footsteps are not from Denise, but from my captor, my collector. A firm hand grips my arm above the elbow.
So they came. So they were watching. Guess I’ll never know what Streamline Impressions is all about.
Five
The blond boy wearing navy scrubs doesn’t say a word. He’s probably just out of college, maybe this is his first job, working for the Center at the forefront of scientific research, putting all that book learning to good use. I let him take me back to the tram car, where we ride, alone, back along the track. The tram will zip back into the city to collect the rest of my Order after it deposits me, the rogue electron, back at the nucleus that is our home, our cage.
“You said your name was Jergen?” I say, exiting the tram before his outstretched arm. He is so blond his eyebrows look whiter than his face. This keeps his stern expression from carrying any weight. “Do you know what’s down there that is so off limits? To a group that preaches the value of knowledge, secrets seem a bit hypocritical.” I puff air. “A bit like an insult, really.”
He grunts, not sure how to respond to this. A few minutes later, he drops me at my domus, as ordered.
“Dr. Yamaguchi,” he says, knocking on her apartment door.
“Thank you, Jergen. You may go.” The dark-haired woman turns a soft look my way. Her eyes are kind, compassionate. I imagine she views us as if we are her little flock. She’s been with us since before I can remember. “Valeria.” She sighs. “I know you must be questioning things after the announcement yesterday, but—”
“Someone was watching my live feed,” I interrupt before she can offer whatever consolation was on her mind. Her face makes me want to forget what the Center has done, to just carry on like always. But I remember the hand on my elbow, the feeling of being retracted like a chromosome in anaphase, and I continue. “They were inside my head. Without me even knowing.”
She sighs again, her brows lifted in concern. “Much is expected of you, remember? We must help you uphold these expectations.” At her words, I resist rolling my eyes. “And we’re trying to protect you. Your life is far too valuable to risk it on some things. That city is full of people who wish you and the other Order members harm.”
“I’d never have guessed.” So much for an ally.
Her expression turns sad. “I’m sorry, then, if you’ve encountered people like that. It is for that reason we bring you back when you wander too far.”
Though she looks truly sorry, I think about barking back something that exposes her well-rehearsed lies. Instead, I just swallow my rising pulse and shake my head. Yamaguchi is the only one here who seems to think of us as actual people, not just expensive lab equipment. It is worth staying on her good side.
Intending to head to my lab, I spin and walk toward the domus door. Yamaguchi disappears into her office-apartment once again, enjoying the rare occasion that all her ducklings—well, most of them—are elsewhere. Before I reach the door, Julius pops his head out of one of the sleep chambers that line the walls.
“Oy!” He calls. “Heard someone out here.” The door slides shut behind him, the light above the door switching from red to green.
At the same time, we ask, “What are you doing here?”
I let Julius take the lead. He smiles, pressing his freckles together. “You must have stoked Pru pretty well, because the next generic that nagged us was on the ground wailing with a bloody nose.”
I gape at him. “No way.”
He laughs. “Policeman popped us both back on the tram. Looked like he wanted nothing more than to cuff two gen-eng, but he figured we’d laser him with our eyes or something, so he just sent us home with a good scolding.”
Shaking my head, I try to picture Pru punching someone. Where in the world did she get that idea? We are not taught how to fight.
Julius chuckles at my puzzlement. “I know. Crazy. You should’ve seen it.” He crosses his arms. “What’s your story?”
“Thought I’d see what the bottom floor had for sale. Got swiped before I saw much.”
Julius nods, but his brows pinch in. “Val, they must’ve had someone—”
“Watching my live feed. Yeah, I know.” But who? Surely not the Director. In my mind, I picture a room full of screens, buried somewhere in this Center, where people do nothing but watch our lives through our eyes as we live them. Streams are one thing. This is an entirely new level of invasion.
Julius sees the rage heating up my cheeks. “Val, calm down,” he says, like I’m about to blow. “Think it through. Maybe they had someone watching because we were out there. Maybe that’s the only time they watch. In case we do exactly what you just did and go somewhere we’re not supposed to go. Maybe after what happened a few years ago with Octavius trying to run, they figured they better watch us.”
“And you’re okay with that?” I bark, incredulous. “I’ve got fifteen other people that I already share a brain with. Sixteen if you count the Director peeping in, as he told me he likes to do. I don’t want anyone else rooting around in my brain when I’m not even allowed to hang out all by myself in there!”
All by myself. Something like a bomb has just gone off in my head.
Yamaguchi pokes her head out of her office at the raised voices, snapping me from this new thought. “Valeria? Julius? Everything all right?” She approaches us, concern tugging on a frown.
Thankfully, Julius steps up with an answer. “Val believes you’ve got people watching our feeds while we’re at the mall. Is it true?” His tone is much less accusatory than mine would be right about now.
Yamaguchi begins a slow nod, then lifts a hand before I can burst out in anger. “Yes, but listen please.” She lowers her hand. “Only you, Valeria.” She lets me splutter and spew for a few seconds. “Only you because the Director sensed you might do something rash. He said he spoke with you, and you seemed upset.”
“Ha! Seemed?”
Yamaguchi continues, “I believe it was only while you were away. I’m certain no one is watching now. But I’ll check into it.” She clasps her hands. “It was for your good, Valeria. Please trust that.” She offers one more conciliatory smile and heads for the domus exit.
Julius meanders toward one of the couches.
For a minute, I just stand there, silent, mind drifting back to the words I said earlier: all by myself in there.
“What’s up, V?” he asks, pale eyebrows buckling as he watches me. “Looking a little scary.”
Attempting to soften my expression, I think of what Yamaguchi said. The Director likely only had someone watch my live feed while I was at the mall. Until I know for sure, I can’t get too excited about being alone in my own head. I’ll have to wait.
“Never mind,” I say, waving him away.
“You sure? You look a little freak-eyed.”
This makes me laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
With that, I turn and head for my lab, the words all by myself repeating in my mind.
T
he round weights clink together as they slide into place on my bar. My muscles are tired, my brain is tired, my enthusiasm is tired. The other renegades loading weights look just as tired. But our wristbands are clocking the minutes and our heartrates in here. We have to log our reps today, and if we don’t do more than last time, we’ll disappoint the resident disciplinarian, Mr. Crowne, who stands before us waxing poetic about the function of the Codex. He oversees all the rule-breaking and any overly enjoyable frivolity among Order members. Just watching his bulbous nose flaring and crispy goatee twitching is enough to make me cringe.
As soon as he turns to leave, I catch sight of Marcus and Julius entering the broad doors to the Rat on the other side of the huge room. Flavius is the only other one from our Order in here today for punishment. He’s clipping his weights in place when I whisper at him.
“Psst. What’d you do?” I nod at the bar of weights.
He frowns. “We’re not supposed to talk about that, Val. Come on.” He flaps his arms back and forth a few times, warming up.
I’m about to badger him more, but just then Julius and Marcus are within earshot.
Julius prances up first, swinging his arms like an idiot marching in some parade. He slaps Flavius on the shoulder. “Get to work, Flabby.” That’s his name for his best friend, especially when we’re in the Rat. Flavius is far from flabby, but he is still twig-armed compared to Marcus. “Hey, did he tell you what he did?”
I raise my eyebrows.
“He accidentally let one of his test animals die!” Julius claps a hand over a pseudo-gasp.
Flavius’ cheeks turn a blotchy red, his pale skin always betraying him. “We were testing her tolerance to a new drug.” He sounds downright remorseful.
“What? Give her too much?” I ask.
Flavius’ frown deepens. “I was so stressed out about publication that I just goofed on the amount.” He cringes. “I didn’t see the decimal point.”
The Veritas Project Page 4