Taking up half the room is a gigantic sewing machine constructed of mismatched junky components. A long robotic arm with ink cartridges ends in a grouping of about ten needles. It hovers over a table big enough for a person to lie down on. A laser attachment lies unused on the floor.
One wall is covered in prints depicting bodies in agony—burning alive in tombs on fire, drowning in an oily, black river. Another has skeletal humans beseeching demons who stab them with prongs to keep them in cauldrons of fire. Really relaxing stuff.
While I’m wondering why getting dressed has to involve depictions of otherworldly torture, something else catches my eye. Across the room is a desk with four enormous screens above it.
The first screen has a map of the States, with several red dots aglow in a random configuration across the country. A map key is scrawled in handwriting on the screen. Next to the largest red dot, it says “Previous known Aureus locations.” One dot, in contrast, luminesces in blue over central Neia. Beside it is a question mark.
On the second screen, a graph containing photo IDs—babies, kids, and teens as old as I am—is tagged to a third screen with a list of body parts and various gene sequences. There are lists of companies, products, and addresses.
The fourth screen is dark and empty.
“Here you go, sweet pea.” Vera’s tone is so caustic, she might as well have called me fermented cabbage. She hands me an armload of shirts, all dark-hued—blacks and browns and several dusky blues and grays.
“Thanks. Uh, so whose room is this?” I ask.
“It’s Cy’s,” she says, already halfway out the door.
“Wait, wait. Is he okay with me taking his clothes?”
“Probably not. But happily, that’s your problem now, not mine.” Vera takes off, leaving me feeling and looking like a very guilty thief. As I head for the hallway, a hiss sounds behind me.
Oh, no. Is Cy in here? I turn to find the sound, but the machine hasn’t moved, and I’m positive the room is empty. Something moves in the fourth screen, which was turned off before. A blob expands within the frame. A pair of glittering eyes find mine and blink twice. I see a fall of disheveled dark hair, and reddened lips that open, ready to speak.
I clutch the clothes closer to my chest, as if they’ll provide some feeble protection. She doesn’t speak, just watches me, but I’m filled with a different fear than when I first saw the mutant kids. Instinct tells me this girl is damaged and dangerous and that logic doesn’t exist in her world. She stares at me like I’m the last drop of water in a desert. I step away from the screen, and the girl moans in pain at my retreat.
I turn around and run to my room. I don’t look back.
IN MY ROOM, I GET DRESSED IN the least lacy set of black lingerie, a pair of black leggings with a tube-miniskirt, and one of Cy’s dishwater-gray shirts. It’s perfect—loose, shapeless on my small frame, and soft. I can’t quite ignore the boy pheromones embedded in the fabric. Kind of spicy and smoky with a woodsy note.
I pick up Dyl’s purse, and mentally brush away the freaky girl, the sewing machine from hell, even Q’s static-filled warnings. But I can’t remove the memory of that list of body parts. I think of Dyl and her delicate fingers, her doe-like eyes.
No, I can’t go there. Not now.
I take out the hairbrush and examine it minutely. I find three strands of her hair.
DNA. My ticket to figuring out what Dyl’s trait is.
I put it all back in Dyl’s purse and sling it diagonally across my shoulder. Didn’t Wilbert say Cy was supposed to show me the labs? I leave my room and pause in the hallway, wishing I had a compass for this place.
“Where is everyone?” I wonder out loud.
A calm, electronic voice emerges from the walls. “Marka is in her laboratory, level one. Hexus, Cyrad, and Wilbert are in the holorec room, level two. Vera is—”
“Thank you,” I say, cutting off the voice.
“You’re welcome,” the voice responds.
The walls give me directions down some winding stairs and a long corridor. I find the holorec room and push the door open a tiny crack. The sounds of squeaking sneakers and a bouncing basketball hit my ears.
“I still think we should go get her. It’s her first day,” Wilbert says.
“Technically, her second. So get her,” Hex says, huffing. More squeaking sneakers, and a whoosh.
“This isn’t fair, I only have two hands!” Wilbert pants. “I don’t want to play anymore.”
Someone dribbles the ball quickly. “C’mon Wil. Who else can I play with?”
“How about Cy? He’s good.”
“Cy knifed my basketball last month when I invited him. So, yeah. No.”
Cy’s low voice erupts from the distance. “I can hear you both, cretins. Shut up.”
Wilbert drops his voice. “Anyway, I gave her a tour yesterday.”
I hear him plunk down on the floor, and I open the door a bit more and peek in. Half the room is a perfect reconstruction of a last-century New York City corner basketball court, complete with a partially cloudy sky, chain-link fence, and faded paint on asphalt. Cigarette butts litter the ground, from a time when they were as easy to buy as bubble gum.
Hex is still dribbling and shooting baskets, his arms a blur of motion. On the sidelines, Wilbert gulps down water, his skin bright red and glistening with sweat. Farther away, the court abruptly transitions to a white area with a treadmill climbing wall, slowly turning over. Cy, in a drenched, sleeveless T-shirt and baggy fatigues, tirelessly finds foot- and handholds as he maintains his elevation.
“Pause wall,” he orders. He spits on the ground (gross) and barks, “Water.” A small orange bot scurries out of nowhere to scramble up the wall like a spider, offer a bottle of water, and retreat. It quickly mops up his spit before disappearing. Cy doesn’t resume climbing; he listens to Hex and Wilbert quietly discussing my arrival while he chalks his hands from a bag on his waistband. He restarts the wall, climbing steadily, and makes a derisive sound.
“She’ll figure this place out, if she’s smart. And if she’s not smart, well. Sucks to be stupid.”
My skin prickles in response.
Hex tries for a three-point shot and makes it. “Sweet!” He burps. “Ugh. Too much bacon. C’mon, Cy. She’s nice. Cute too, in a runt-of-the-litter sorta way.”
“I don’t know why Marka dragged her here. She’s worse than ordinary.”
My stomach clenches with fury. I know I’m ordinary, but to have it uttered with such disgust makes me want to take my ordinary fist and stuff it in his extraordinary face. This guy makes my blood boil. And I never knew I had a boiling point.
Cy’s not done. He spits on the floor again. “She’s damaged goods.”
“Don’t be so lofty,” Hex says, burping up more fried pig. “The government thinks you’re a defective product too.”
“I’m an improvement from the status quo. She’s at death’s door every time she freaking hiccups.”
I’m so pissed that I shove the door open and it smacks against the wall. Wilbert sprays out a mouthful of water across his lap. Hex snorts in amusement and Cy twists to look over his shoulder to lock eyes on me. He doesn’t stop the wall, which continues to glide downward. At the last second, he jumps to land deftly on the floor, sending the spit-cleaning bot squealing away. He’s still staring at me.
“Blueberry bread?” Wilbert offers nervously, holding up a tiny plate. I cringe. It’s probably got saliva spray all over it.
“No thanks,” I say. Cy finally turns away when Vera and Marka walk in, each holding a cup of something steaming. Vera’s got a plateful of more food.