Every Ugly Word Page 23

  He laughed. “I’d heard you were good, Aris Haan, but blighting hell, that was fantastic.”

  A whisper of unease unfurled in her belly. “How do you know who I am?”

  Instead of answering, he held a hand up as an invitation. “You coming down from there?”

  Her weak leg tensed reflexively. Flying was one thing; getting in and out of a wingjet gracefully was quite another. She eyed him warily. “Why don’t you answer my question first?”

  The man’s friendly smile twisted into a guarded expression. “It’s not important.”

  “And how did you know I was here? Is that important?” she pushed.

  The man shrugged. “I watched you leave your father’s grove and followed you so we could speak privately. And so I could see what you can do.”

  Her mind raced. He’d followed her? How had she not noticed? And more importantly: “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I want to offer you a job.”

  She let out a disbelieving laugh. Not only were women not allowed in the Military sector, they weren’t authorized to take any job, in any sector, deemed “dangerous.” What could he possibly have in mind?

  “Tomorrow, at your selection, you’ll be invited to join the Environment sector,” the man said. “And then what? Work as a duster for your father’s groves? There were only two people in your entire year that scored even close to you in the aviation trial. That talent would be wasted there.”

  His words sent ice down her spine. “How do you know I’ll be selected for Environment? No one finds out their sectors until the ceremony.”

  “I know more about you than you can imagine,” he interjected. “I know why you won’t get down from that wingjet, for one. And I know you’ll never fulfill your potential here. It’ll eat away at you, settling for this life.” He put a hand on the side of her wingjet. “Listen to me—”

  “Who are you? Is this some kind of . . . I don’t know . . . some sort of trick?”

  He raised his chin. “No. And I don’t offer this lightly.”

  “You’re Military. You can’t be . . . I mean, you can’t offer—”

  “You have a lot of questions, of course. But I’m not the one to answer them.” The man drew a small piece of silco from his pocket and handed it to her. The letters on it were stamped in blood-red ink. “Go to Dianthe. She’ll explain everything. You’ll find her at this address in Panthea. Tell her Theo sent you.”

  Aris took the silco, gingerly, as if it might bite her. “You want me to go to Panthea?”

  He leaned closer, a new urgency in this voice. “Don’t tell anyone where or why you’re going. Tell them you got a job in the city, whatever will keep them from asking questions. We’ll set it up, however you need. No one can know what you’re really doing. It’s imperative that you tell no one. Do you understand?”

  She studied Theo’s face. Understand? He had to be joking. “I don’t understand anything. What kind of job is it? And why do I have to lie to my family?”

  “This is your chance to fly,” he said, his eyes serious. “Not that mindless drudgery you do for your father. I mean real flying. All across Atalanta. You have no idea how useful you could be to the war effort. How many lives you could save.”

  She couldn’t keep a burst of bitter laughter from escaping. “That kind of flying isn’t useful. It’s self-indulgent.” Her father had told her so often enough.

  He made an impatient noise. “I’ve watched you. I know what your life is like here. Why aren’t you jumping at this chance?”

  Anger spilled through her. “You don’t know anything about me. How dare you spy on me and think you know me? I’m happy here.”

  “Really? You’re happy being a duster and never leaving Lux?” Theo stared up at her, his face set in rigid lines.

  “I am.” With Calix, she would be.

  “You’re either stupid or selfish then.” He turned away, as if disgusted with her. “This isn’t just about you.”

  Selfish? Stupid? “If you know so much, surely you’re aware I’m about to be Promised.” She and Calix had already decided. Two years of Promise, then they could choose to marry. And be bound, irrevocably, for the rest of their lives. It’s what she’d wanted for as long as she could remember. “He’s going to ask me tomorrow, after selection. I can’t leave, and there’s nothing selfish or stupid about it.”

  The man turned back to her and scoffed. “A Promise? Don’t count on it.”

  “Excuse me?” Shock painted her words.

  “I assume you’re referring to Calix Pavlos?”

  Her chest tightened. “Tomorrow he’ll join the Health sector. He’s going to work in his mother’s clinic. We—”

  Theo slammed a hand against the side of her wingjet, cutting her off. “Have you not watched the news vids? This war will claim us all, one way or another.” His thin lips twisted with an emotion she couldn’t identify. “Calix will be selected for Military, make no mistake.”

  “You’re wrong.” A buzzing filled her ears. “We’re winning the war. That’s what the news vids say. Calix isn’t going anywhere.” This man was her nightmare after all, come to take everything from her. “His family has been part of the Health sector for generations. There’s no chance—”

  “There is, Aris, and you know it.” Theo stepped back, tipping his head up to look her in the eye. “Please. Consider my offer. You could save lives. Maybe even Calix’s.”

  Then, without another word, he climbed into his shining wingjet and sped away.

  For more, follow @tracythewriter on Twitter or visit her at www.tracybanghart.com

  Looking for more great reads? Turn the page for an excerpt of

  IMITATION

  By Heather Hildenbrand

  Ven knows everything about wealthy, eighteen-year-old Raven Rogen, from her favorite designer down to the tiny scar on her right arm. That’s because she’s Raven’s clone, though she’s never met her face-to-face. Imitations only get to leave the lab when their Authentics need them—to replace the dead, to offer an organ transplant, or in Ven’s case, to serve as bait after Raven is attacked in broad daylight. Thrust into the real world for the very first time, Ven must draw out Raven’s assailants, or die trying. But when Ven falls for Raven’s bodyguard, she discovers some things are worth living for. She was created to serve . . . but is she prepared to sacrifice herself for a girl she’s never met?

  Chapter One

  Everyone is exactly like me.

  There is no one like me.

  I wrestle with these contradicting truths most nights while the others sleep. Tonight is worse because Marla has left me a note to see her in the morning. No one sees Marla and comes back. Lonnie reminded me of this after she snatched the note out of my shaking hand and read it for Ida, who promptly burst into tears. We didn’t speak after that, lying in our bunks until lights out.

  Above me, Lonnie steadily breathes in and out. She’s not worrying herself out of a good night’s sleep. She’s not the one going to see Marla. Below me, Ida is quiet. I suspect she is awake, ruminating. She has a way of latching on to other people’s stress and not letting go until everyone is happy again. I long to call out to her, but there is no talking in the dormitory after lights out.

  The rough fabric of my cotton nightgown chafes so I lie very still. Once, during a training exercise, they gave me a satin blouse in place of my coarse uniform. For a few moments, I was completely her—eighteen-year-old Raven Rogen, my Authentic—down to the fabric. The slippery material felt like cool fingertips on a hot day. All I could think was: She wears clothes like this every single day.

  I know everything about Raven and the world she lives in, thanks to the video footage I watch during my training sessions. But I have never experienced anything for myself—not even the sun. My entire life is an imitation of hers.

  I am an Imitation.

  All of us here are. From the time the tubes are removed and air is forced into our lungs, until our petri-grown organs learn
to contract on their own, we are nothing but shadows of our Authentics. I used to think there was an Imitation for every Authentic, but when I asked my Examiner, Josephine, she laughed and said we’d need a whole lot more space here if that was the case. Only special Authentics get the privilege of a copy—ones with money, power, influence.

  It seems as if there are thousands of us, though it’s hard to tell exactly how many exist. Twig City is sorted into sections, our placement depending on our gender, how old we were when they “woke” us, and whether we’ve gotten a note from Marla. Those woken at a young age live in a different wing, where nurses and teachers chart their development daily. You have to be at least twelve to live on my floor—the training sector, where we learn to become our Authentic—but the oldest I’ve seen is somewhere around fifty. There is no saying how long you’ll stay in this sector once you’re here. Could be a week, could be a year, depending on when your Authentic needs you. I’ve been awake for five years. Training. Preparing. Waiting—for a note from Marla. And for what comes after.

  Some say Marla is our creator—but I don’t think so. I have a memory, a hazy nightmare, of the day I woke. None of the first faces I saw were female. One man in particular stands out in the fog. I can’t recall his features, but the impression he left is one of utter fear. Though I can’t explain it, I am positive this man is our creator.

  Others say Marla is the gatekeeper. A walker between worlds, connecting us, the Imitations, to them. The humans, the womb-born, the Authentics.

  I don’t know which is true. All I know is no one ever returns from meeting with Marla.

  Across the pitch-dark room comes a whisper, and I count down the seconds until an Overseer comes in. Overseers are the sentries, the silent guards who watch and wait, only intervening when a rule is broken or boundary overstepped. A minute later, I hear the sure, swift fall of an Overseer’s feet as she makes her way to the offending bunk to bark an order of quiet at whoever it was. Probably Clora. She’s new and headstrong. Lonnie speculates it is a trait from her Authentic. I hope not. If it’s part of her DNA, it won’t be easy an easy habit to break.

  “This is your only warning,” the Overseer threatens. “Another infraction and you’ll be reported to Marla.”

  I’m convinced Overseers are paid to be cross. I’ve told this to my Examiner, Josephine, and she doesn’t bother arguing so I know it’s true. Josephine is more laid-back than most, but I’ve never told her the real truth: that the idea of leaving Twig City is terrifying. Instead, I tell Josephine what she wants to hear, what Imitations are supposed to say: When I am called to duty, I will be ready. I will serve my Authentic in any way necessary.

  After all, I was created to serve.

  The Overseer finishes her warning and exits the room, back to her monitoring booth full of cameras. The door latches with a soft click and all is silent save for the omnipresent hum of the building. They say it is the sound of life being poured through plastic piping and into the tiny tube-grown humans housed downstairs. Tonight, it grates on me.

  I chase sleep, grazing my fingertips across its tail end but never fully catch it. Hours later, the lights come on, signaling to our windowless chamber that it is morning. I shove the blanket aside and sit up, blinking against a sea of sameness.

  The sleeping room is a long rectangle with high ceilings and a bad echo, lined with triple-level bunk beds. Everyone here is part of a trio. Lonnie says it’s because three’s a crowd. It creates diversity and therefore animosity. It discourages the bonding that happens when there are only two. Ida tells her she’s wrong because the three of us have bonded just fine. I see both points; no one else seems as close as we are, but no other trio has lasted this long. I’ve been with Lonnie and Ida since I began. Most others have lost at least one of their threesome to a note from Marla, only to have them replaced by a stranger.

  And now I have a letter.

  I slide out of my bunk and land lightly on my feet. In the bunk above, Lonnie is slow to wake, grumpily mumbling about bacon and coffee as she stretches her toned arms toward the ceiling. She thinks her Authentic must not be a morning person.

  Ida stands more quickly. Her thick black hair ripples as she moves, mussed but manageable in its pixie cut. Her eyes are heavy and blinking but not from grogginess; her lids are puffy, rimmed in pink. The longer she stares at me, the more her bottom lip trembles. I slip my shoes on and fuss with my pale hair—anything to ignore Ida’s nervous energy.

  Anna, the girl whose bunk is closest to ours, catches my eye and nods. I nod back in silent hello. It is a daily ritual, simple and meaningless considering we never converse beyond this, but I will miss it when I’m gone.

  While we wait for Lonnie, I take Ida’s hand in mine and hold her palm open. Using my index finger, I trace the outline of a square and then a check mark inside it. It’s going to be okay, I convey using our secret language. Ida takes my hand and scribbles a wavy line across my palm in return. A loose W for “whatever.”

  I let my hand drop.

  It started on paper, a shorthand code made up of symbols we’d exchange back and forth to communicate during lectures. When we got caught passing notes, we began drawing the pictures in invisible lines on each other’s skin.

  “Ven, I don’t want you to go,” Ida says in her soft voice, which always makes me think of dolls in pretty dresses. Porcelain. Breakable.

  I don’t acknowledge her plea. If she cries again, I fear I will, too.

  “Time for breakfast,” I say.

  We fall into step together as the crowd of girls who live in this wing surge toward the breakfast hall. The air smells of sleepy bodies with an underlying chemical scent that drifts down from the pipes and mixes with everything, even the food and water.

  Anna bumps my shoulder as she pushes past. I don’t complain, because we’re taught silence is best when there’s nothing of value to say. Besides, the way to breakfast used to involve a lot more shoving and jostling for space. Notes from Marla have depleted our numbers.

  We’re the last group to arrive and the room, although large, is crowded. Four dormitories share this dining hall, a total of roughly two hundred forty women in plain uniforms.

  “I smell bacon,” Lonnie announces. She heads straight for the buffet line and taps her foot impatiently as she waits her turn. I wander to the coffee and muffins station with Ida and fill a plate even though my stomach feels packed with bricks.

  As we sit down at our regular table, Lonnie glares suspiciously at Ida’s plate. “Is that bran?”

  “Bran’s good for you,” Ida says, her lips forming a pout.

  I stare longingly at Lonnie’s single piece of sausage and two small strips of bacon.

  “Don’t be too jealous,” she says. “I had to sign up for an extra thirty minutes of cardio to get both.”

  As the smell hits me, it seems a small price to pay. I watch with rapture as she chews. She catches me looking. I force a bite of my muffin. “Yum,” I say dryly.

  Lonnie grins. “All the money they bring in growing people in test tubes, you’d think they could afford tastier food. Messed-up priorities, I’m telling ya.”

  “Maybe Ven will make Marla change her mind,” Ida says abruptly.

  Lonnie rolls her eyes and mumbles “not likely” around a mouthful of eggs. They are not real eggs but processed, organic material packed with vitamins and proteins. Lonnie says she doesn’t care as long as they’re hot.

  Ida glares at her. “It’s possible. Ven can be convincing when she wants to be.”

  “No one ‘convinces’ Marla,” Lonnie says.

  She’s right. Even Ida knows it. “What do you think they want with you?” Ida asks quietly.

  Lonnie and I share a look. There are only two reasons an Imitation gets a letter from Marla.

  “They probably have an assignment for me,” I say. Neither of us is willing to say the other option: that I’m wanted for harvesting. No one ever talks about it, but we all know it’s the main reason we ex
ist.

  In training, we speak only of assignments. Missions. Most often, the job involves inserting yourself into the life of your Authentic when you’re needed. For what, exactly, they don’t say, and we’ve never been able to ask. Imitations who complete their assignments move from Training to Maintenance, where they get more free time than we have here. I’ve imagined hundreds of missions: giving speeches for a camera-shy Authentic; going to work while your Authentic vacations on tropical islands; walking the red carpet while your Authentic is sick in bed; being a surrogate mother . . .

  “You’re probably right that it’s a mission,” Ida says. “Something clandestine and exciting, I’m sure.”

  There is a note of forced cheerfulness in her voice. Anyone else listening would assume it was for my benefit, or Lonnie’s, but I know better. Ida must convince herself there is no reason to panic.

  “If you’re really lucky, you’ll get Relocation,” Lonnie suggests.

  Relocation is the ultimate reward, where you’re sent when your Authentic is no longer in need of an Imitation. They say it’s a hidden wing of Twig City full of nothing but relaxation. Sort of like retirement. Donuts and lounge chairs until our bodies give out. Exercise is no longer required six days a week and our bacon isn’t rationed. Lonnie says that last part is too good to be true. Ida always rolls her eyes at that.

  “That would mean my Authentic is dead,” I point out.

  “Not necessarily,” Lonnie argues. “Maybe she just doesn’t want an Imitation anymore.”

  “Or maybe she wants to meet you. Can you imagine that? Living with humans? Pretending to be one of them?” Ida is faraway, her words wistful.

  I force my hand steady and let Ida’s comment pass without reply, choking down the smaller half of my muffin. I try to focus on my excitement rather than my fear. Because like it or not, I have a note to see Marla. And no one sees Marla and comes back.

  For more, follow @HeatherHildenbr or visit her at www.heatherhildenbrand.blogspot.com