“Mmm-hmmm,” he replies, still not really listening.
“Some of them are combinations of two proteins that form a dimer. Maybe that’s why you couldn’t isolate it.”
“Dimers are good.” He nuzzles into my neck, sinking his fingers into my hair.
“C’mon.” I jump off Cy and straighten my tank top. “Let’s find it. Just for fun.”
“This wasn’t fun enough for you?” Cy says, getting up.
I smile. “It’s time to get back to the lab anyway.” As we head for the door, Cy orders the holo room to shut down. The sun fizzles away and the trees, cliff, and birds wink out in a shattering of color and light.
Once we reach the lab, my good mood dissipates, like the sky and fairy-tale clouds of the holorec room. I’m left with no good solution to my problem of bottling my trait to trade for Dyl. Cy kisses me good-bye and leaves to shower. I watch his lean, graceful stride down the hallway. His beauty affects me at the very center of myself, hollowing me out and leaving a dark ache behind.
What if it’s all an illusion, like that holo-sun? What if all Cy, and Marka, and my new family—I can actually call them that now, because my heart says it’s so—what if they disappear, too?
In Cy’s absence, I pull up Dyl’s diary and listen to the poem, searching for the second stanza.
Fear is imperfect; it is weaker than hope.
Yet even under precious, solar warmth
And sweet grass, I still feel its cold grasp.
Nothing lovely hides the inevitable.
It is coming, little one.
I hear what my father was trying to tell me.
Get used to loss. It is the only thing you can truly depend on.
CHAPTER 22
I AM GOING CRAZY.
Lack of sleep and food will do that to a girl.
I stay up all night, trying to think of ways to manufacture my trait into something tradable. Even my “fun” breaks, taking the time to identify the intricate bio-accelerant components to Cy’s DNA, don’t cheer me up.
Marka finally threatens to close down the lab if I don’t consume some calories, so I march away to the kitchen with Cy to get a bite. I jump onto one of the countertops as he orders two bowls of Greek lemon soup from the food efferent. I grumble into the bowl between sips.
“If I can’t think of how to do this, I’m just going to trade myself.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Cy says, slurping soup.
“That’s uncharacteristically optimistic of you.”
“It’s not, actually.” Cy looks at me under his hair. I love his eyes, those shining bits of gold within the gray, but at the moment they’re more cold metal than sun.
“Explain,” I say.
“If we can’t find an alternative, Marka won’t let you leave.”
I put my bowl down. “She can’t do that.”
“I won’t let you leave either.”
“You’ll just let Dyl rot away with those people? They keep her drugged half the time!” I slap the table and accidentally hit my spoon, which sails across the room and clatters to the floor.
“The silverware has nothing to do with it. If you’re mad, take it out on me,” he says evenly.
I ignore his comment, festering. Cy walks over and clasps my hands in his own warm ones. He holds them still, as if administering a blessing. It melts me inside to have him looking at me. Like that. Cy presses my hand against his cheek. Today there are no piercings anywhere, and no tattoos either.
“Don’t hate me for saying this,” Cy starts, “but don’t you see? They’ll kill her, one way or another. At least here you’re safe.”
“This is a moot conversation. We’ll find a way to make my trait tradable. And then I’ll bring it—”
“No.”
I pull my hand away and cross my arms. Cy’s face is hurt, but he doesn’t budge. Oh great. He’s not done.
“If and when we make something tradable, you’re not going.”
“Who exactly is going to go instead?”
“Marka. She’ll arrange an exchange, but you won’t be there.”
“No. That’s not . . . No!”
“It doesn’t matter. We all voted on it, with Marka.”
“What kind of democracy is it where I don’t get to vote?”
“The kind where you’re underage. I’m eighteen. Vera is too.”
“I’m going to be eighteen in four months! This is idiotic!”
Cy doesn’t answer.
“I need some air.”
“Where are you going?” Cy manages to grasp my arm, but I wriggle away.
“The agriplane.”
“But—”
He stops when he catches the look on my face. I walk up to Cy and lean my arms on either side of him, staring lovingly into his handsome but appropriately wary face. I speak low but very clearly.
“If I hear another but or can’t or don’t today, I will unleash the hellfire of all things female and bitchy and you won’t recover for a millennium. Okay?”
Cy sweeps his hand to the door, and I’m out of there.
THE DOOR IN THE WHITE DOME IS locked. I press the pad next to it. Nothing. My fist bangs the door, but the light continues to stubbornly blink in red.
“Wilbert!” I call, hoping he’ll hear me. After a few moments, there’s a crackle of sound.
“Oh. Hey, Zelia.” There’s no mistaking the less-than-enthusiastic tone.
“Do me a favor and unlock the door?”
“I can’t.”
My most unfavorite word today. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“We’re on lockdown for a while. Even Vera doesn’t have access. She’s turning brown in some spots, you should see her.”
Damn. Outside the window, it’s cloudy, and true to Wilbert’s words, Vera is nowhere to be seen. Now I’m desperate. Ah, what I wouldn’t do for a drive in the Porsche! But Wilbert’s lost his rights to the keys since the junkyard disaster, so I’m really trapped. I don’t know how Cy can stand it. No wonder everyone else was willing to defy Marka and risk everything for a night out.
I go back to my bubble room and sulk. Dyl’s purse sits on the center of the floor, a little shrine to everything I can’t control. I open it up gingerly and take out our mom’s broken necklace. I untie my dad’s ring, and I hold it up to my eye, peering through it like a telescope.
Though scuffed a little, it’s still a perfect circle. No end, no beginning. The necklace is just a line. The links that would bring the broken ends together are a little mangled, but mendable. I just need a link. Just one, little, matching . . .
Oh my god.
The idea comes in a flash, so simple, it’s laughable. I want to rush back to the lab and tell Cy, but not yet. I’m still desperate for that bit of freedom I haven’t tasted.
“I need some air!” I holler, waving my arms in a desperate attempt to enjoy the moment of inspiration.
“Filtered, or unfiltered?” my room’s feminine voice asks.
“What?” It still shocks me when the building talks to me. It must be programmed for slow people like me, because it fills the silence after a moment.
“Select ‘increase internal air flow’ or ‘window’ option.”
“There’s a window option?” I’m all agog. “Okay, window option.” I stare at the bubble wall of glass that makes up half my room, with the backdrop of dreary Neia. Three small, clear squares slide into the invisible space of the thick glass. They’re high up on the curve of the glass wall, a foot below the ceiling. In seconds, the stale air of the city pours in.