Unchanged (18 page)

Dr. Rio finishes speaking and hurriedly steps away. Dr. A resumes his position at the podium to answer questions from the reporters.

I'm about to return to my search results because I've already seen this footage, when something on the far edge of the screen catches my eye. I'm not sure why I didn't notice it before. Probably because I was too focused on Dr. A's Q&A to pay attention to what was happening offstage.

The visual is slightly cut off due to the edge of the cam's frame. But I can just make out Rio—who has literally run away from the podium—bending down low to pick something up. A moment later, I see he's lifted a small child—a little girl—into his arms. His previous anxiety instantly vanishes. He's smiling now, kissing the girl's cheek.

I command the screen to pan left and zoom in tight. I can see most of Rio's body but still only half of the child's face. She looks to be about four years old. With dark honey-colored hair, golden skin, and as Rio bounces her slightly in his arms, causing her to smile, I can see a small pink birthmark just under the right side of her jawline. I zoom in farther and see that it vaguely resembles the shape of a maple leaf.

Familiarity tugs at my subconscious.

I recognize the girl. I've seen her before. In a memory. In
Rio's
memory. It was a little over a year ago, when I returned to the compound with Kaelen in search of the Repressor for Lyzender. Rio was in a vegetative state in the Medical Sector, before they replaced his brain with a computer. His memories were scrambled and chaotic, but I was able to see one.

Or, perhaps, he was able to
show
me one. The only one that mattered.

It was of her.

She had the same sweet, heart-shaped face, the same clear and curious mahogany-brown eyes. The same miraculously uplifting effect on the man who's holding her in this footage.

A man who is now—for all intents and purposes—gone.

But what about her? Where is she? Why have I never met her or heard a single utterance about her before?

My mind flashes to the day we left the compound. To Rio's stony, warped face as he stood motionless under that creepy cottonwood tree.

Sariana.

That's what he called me.

My thoughts racing, I return to my search page and speak new terms. “Sariana Ri…”

But my voice trails off when I see a result from my last search farther down the screen. It's a link to archived footage labeled
DIOTECH VS. JENZA PADDOK
.

Jenza Paddok. Weren't Dr. A and Director Raze discussing someone by that name the other night at evening meal?

I select it and the ceiling begins to play a capture from what looks to be the outside of a courthouse. A small crowd has gathered, and a tall, slender woman with dark skin and a long face descends the steps of the large stone building.

Feed reporters surround the woman as hovercams buzz around her head.

“Ms. Paddok,” one of the reporters asks, “what is your response to the unexpected dismissal of this lawsuit against Diotech Corporation?”

I access my brain for a legal definition of
dismissal
. One comes back immediately from an upload I received months ago about the U.S. legal system: a judge's ruling that all or a portion of the lawsuit is terminated or thrown out, at which point no further evidence or testimony may be provided.

A well-dressed woman, presumably her lawyer, blocks the reporter from getting closer. “This setback is unfortunate but Ms. Paddok is not finished seeking justice from Diotech for the crimes they have brought against humanity. We will find another way to fight this battle.”

A second reporter tries to ask a follow-up question but Paddok blocks him with a raise of her hand. It's then that I notice the small mark on her palm. It's not swirling or animated like a nanotat. It looks to be a
real
tattoo. The kind they used to ink directly into your skin before the less invasive nano version was invented.

I rewind the footage and pause on the image of her hand thrust toward the cam. I command the screen to zoom in on the tattoo, studying the curious image.

It's a red crescent moon.

But as the footage expands across my ceiling, getting closer and closer to the peculiar symbol, it's not the red moon that snags my attention. It's the blurry face peering out from behind the woman's outstretched hand.

Someone buried deep within the crowd of spectators and news crews.

A crop of thick, dark hair. A pair of liquid-chocolate eyes. Lips that would feel all too familiar against my own.

“Zoom out,” I yell frantically at the screen.

It obeys. And suddenly there he is. Barely visible amid the sea of onlookers. His usual easy smile is gone. Replaced by a somber look of determination.

“Transfer to Lenses!”

I sit up and watch the same frozen capture fill up my peripheral vision. My eyes dart downward, searching for the metadata. This capture is from two years ago. Almost to the day.

“No,” I say aloud to the empty room.

It can't be him.

It's not possible. It's not possible. It's
not
possible.

But now suddenly all I can think about is his face on that drive. That heartbreaking capture he buried for me to find.

“Yes … always
yes
.”

In a whisper, his name is out of my lips before I can stop it. Before I can hold back the tidal wave of emotion that comes crashing down with it. “Zen.”

 

28

RECALL

I reverse the footage and replay it countless times. He's only there for a moment. When Paddok raises her hand to block the hovercams. Then her arm is back at her side and his face is concealed again. The cams follow her to an awaiting MagCar and he's never seen again.

Common sense.

That's what Dr. A would tell me right now. Half of being a good scientist is knowing when to use common sense. And common sense tells me it can't possibly be him.

Lyzender Luman is in the year 2032. In Brooklyn, New York. I left him there with no transession gene and no way to get back here. Which means now, eighty-five years later, he is most likely dead. Or incredibly old.

It has to be someone who looks like him.

Remarkably
like him.

But my mind immediately flashes back to our Feed interview today. To the viewer who asked the question. Who called himself SZ1609.

I'd finally managed to convince myself it wasn't him. That it was just a strange, unnerving coincidence.

But now …

I don't know.

I pause the footage again and zoom into his dark, endless eyes.

I used to stare into those eyes for hours.

I used to watch him sleep.

I used to count the minutes until he woke.

That was back when I was weak and susceptible to temptation. When I was broken. Now what do I feel?

I don't let myself answer. Because it's a moot question. It's not him. It can't possibly be.

Lyzender Luman is gone. That's not his face. Those aren't his eyes. That's not his mouth.

His mouth …

“You need to come with me.” The urgency in his voice cuts me so deep, I can't look at him. I cast my gaze to the ground.

“If I go with you,” I say, fear nearly choking the words, “will you kiss me again?”

Suddenly, he is next to me. He places his warm, soft palm against my cheek. I close my eyes, memorizing the feel of his skin on my skin.

“Every day.”

The sickness starts to well up inside of me. The writhing desperation to escape my own body.

Hastily, I blink the Feed capture from my Lenses, watching his frozen face disappear from my vision.

But even after it dissolves, those eyes seem to linger. To cling like the stars that dance on the backs of your eyelids when you're falling asleep.

I blink again hard, willing them to leave. I can still see the blacks of his irises. The delicate curve of his long lashes.

I run to the bathroom, activate the sink, and splash water into my eyes, watching my reflection blur and ripple before it settles back to normal again.

His face is still there. His lips are still reaching for mine.

I tear the Lenses from my eyes and toss them into the basin, running the water on full power. I watch the small, helpless domes fight to cling to the sides of the sink. But the riptide is too strong and finally they succumb to their fate, swirling away. Vanishing down the drain.

I stare at the emptying sink for a long time. Much longer than I'm sure Dr. A would approve of.

I'm already practicing the story I will tell Director Raze tomorrow morning when I ask him for a new pair of Lenses. I will say they accidentally popped out when I was washing my face. I will say I fought hard to catch them before they were washed away.

And I will pray that my dangerous lie will never be caught.

The Lenses were clearly defective. And defective things should be replaced.

 

29

SUMMONS

The next day, we board a hyperloop for San Francisco. After that it's Portland and Seattle. We do a Feed interview in each city, followed by a public appearance in a grand amphitheater or arena. Just as Killy promised, the hyperloop rides do get easier. My stomach adjusts, my brain learns how to blitz out.

The protests are getting worse. It seems that in every city we stop, the angry crowds waiting for us are larger and more fearsome than the last. Our hotels are always vacant, entirely bought out by Diotech or a local sponsor. Director Raze brings in extra security—hired freelancers who help him secure the perimeters and guarantee our safety.

Yet I never feel safe.

I wonder if anyone else does.

Conversely, our fans and supporters have grown in vast numbers, too. Every public appearance is sold out. Every local feedcast has millions of live viewers. When we exit the hyperloop stations, alongside the dissenters, there are also admirers. They call out our names, take our capture, hold up signs proclaiming their adoration.

Sometimes it's hard to remember that there are actually more people in this country who love us than hate us. Dane says the protesters are such an infinitesimal percentage of the total population. “Not even a blip on the radar in the grand scheme of things.”

Maybe it's because hate tends to resonate so much louder than love. And the ones who abhor us somehow always find a way to push themselves to the front. To make their infinitesimal percentage heard.

After Seattle, we travel east, stopping in Salt Lake City and Denver before making our way south to Albuquerque, El Paso, Dallas, New Orleans, Nashville, Birmingham, and Atlanta.

Kaelen and I have yet to talk about the incident in his hotel room in Los Angeles. Thus far, we've both managed to avoid the topic completely. It hasn't affected our performance onstage, though. I still love him and I still have no trouble feedcasting it to the world. But he hasn't asked me to come to his room again, even though Dane booked us adjoining suites at every single hotel, and I haven't invited him to mine either.

By day, we are inseparable. We hold hands, we kiss, we speak to each other in romantic Italian. By night, we are alone. I lie in bed and think about him in the next room. I listen for his breathing and try to match mine to his. It's a way to stay connected to him even when we're apart.

I know I could ask him to sleep with me. Just lie next to me and hold me until the night is chased away. But I'm afraid to. I don't know why. Afraid of the memories it will trigger? Memories of another boy who held me through another darkness? Or afraid of the emotions that always seem to come with those memories?

Either way, that night in Los Angeles drove a wedge between Kaelen and me. A wedge that I'm not sure how to remove without the possibility of driving it deeper.

Fortunately, the tour is going so well the rest of our group doesn't seem to notice. Not even Dr. A. The Diotech stock continues to soar to new heights. The ExGen Collection ad runs constantly on the Feed. Our faces are on the cover of every DigiMag and DigiJournal in the country. And Dane says preorders for the genetic modifications have already started pouring in by the millions. According to him, it will be the most successful product launch in Diotech history.

When we get back to the hotel in Atlanta, I murmur a good night to everyone and go straight to my room. Physically, I feel fine—as always—but emotionally, I'm drained. Each day, I grow more and more tired of the act I'm expected to perform. The show Kaelen and I put on for the countless people who come to see us. At least, it's a show for me. For Kaelen, it still appears to come naturally. Like he was born to be onstage. Born to be in front of an audience. His smiles for the cams seem so effortless. His interactions with the screaming fans feel so genuine.

I, on the other hand, have to fake it. Although my body language and delivery are always impeccable (according to Dane), I never feel at ease in front of all those people, all those cams. Again, I wonder how Kaelen and I can be so different, when we're supposedly cut from the same scientific cloth.

I've gotten into the habit of retreating to my room the moment we return to the hotel and not resurfacing until the next morning. The thought of being on display after I finish being on display is too much to fathom.

But tonight I'm barely in my room for five minutes when Dane knocks on the door.

“Jans sent me to fetch you,” he says, and I swear I see a flash of apology in his eyes. Dane is the only one who calls Dr. A by his first name. Really, the only one who's allowed to.

“Fetch me? For what?”

He looks like he's considering answering the question but decides not to. “He told me to bring you to room 702.”

I nod and reluctantly rise from the bed where I collapsed the minute I closed myself inside the room. There's no use stalling or trying to negotiate for more time. Dane and I both know that when Dr. A summons you, you go.