Remake Page 3

  We decide to walk it off and roam Main Street. A tattoo parlor advertises glow-in-the-dark ink and gambling machines. Music booms in the streets from a dance club. Too early for that, too, I think. Simulation centers are on every corner, boasting any craving one can imagine. We stop in front of a cinema building with a giant billboard of two sparsely dressed women holding firearms.

  “What do you think?” I ask, spreading my feet apart, bending my knee down one way and twisting my torso the other, trying to mimic one of the women. I hold my head and chest up but I can’t quite get my arm around my waist like the actress on the billboard.

  Theron laughs and taps my shoulder.

  I pretend to fall over from being so off balance. “It’s anatomically impossible to make that pose,” I say. “Who are they kidding?”

  “Well, look at the other woman,” he says. “Are anyone’s legs that long?”

  “After being Remade? Maybe.”

  We both tilt our heads to the left to follow the impractical way one of her legs folds over the other.

  Theron makes a face. “That can’t feel very good.”

  I laugh and pull him down the street. The variety of people around us is astounding and makes me think everyone is anything but equal. But that’s the beauty of it. Theron and I are equal with our other Batchers now, and we all have an equal chance to choose who we want to be when we’re Remade. Apparently the choices are endless.

  A man steps toward us from the side of the road and looks me up and down. He is tall and thin with long black hair pulled back into a simple braid. His beard is a shaved design of swirls and sharp turns that almost looks like a tattoo. I wonder if a Hair Artist works with facial hair too. I rub my chin, imagining what a beard would feel like.

  I look behind him to what is obviously a brothel. Women with too much makeup and not enough clothing loiter out front. The man nods at us. “Batchlings,” he says. The scent of jasmine and tobacco drifts to my nose.

  His voice feels like sand scraping across my skin. But I don’t think it’s him. It’s the whole idea of the place. A Prostitute is supposed to be a respectable Trade. Why does the thought make me want to run and hide in my Batch tower?

  “Let’s go,” Theron whispers in my ear. He must sense my apprehension.

  We turn and walk right into the Hair Artist who had sheared us the day before. His wide frame, added to his piercings and tattoos, is even more intimidating in the bright sunlight.

  He glances behind us at the bearded man. “A little early in the day for getting into that kind of trouble, don’t you think?” He grins and motions for us to follow him. “I’m Dagan,” he says. “And what are you two Batchers doing outside of your tower, hmm?”

  “One last hurrah before our Remake,” Theron says.

  Dagan nods and leads us into a shop with mirrors for walls. “This is my place,” he says. “I’d offer to do your hair, but . . .” He laughs and points to the wall behind him. “You can try on the wigs if you want.”

  Wigs? The wall behind him is filled with plastic heads wearing a rainbow of hairstyles. Theron puts on a set of purple curls, while I try a length of thin brown braids that falls to my waist. We make faces at each other in the mirror and laugh as we try on several more sets. I try to guess whether I look more like a boy or a girl with each one. Every sample is heavy and warm and makes me wonder if real hair feels this way too.

  I sit Theron down in one of the rotating chairs and pick up a long, thin tube filled with black ink and a short bristled brush on one end. I hold it up to Dagan with an eyebrow raised.

  He works on a woman with pink hair. She is having it straightened into spikes that stick out in every direction. “It’s for temporary tattoos,” Dagan says.

  “In that case, Mr. Theron,” I say. “What will it be today? A shooting star or a fire-breathing dragon?”

  “Surprise me,” he says, grinning from ear to ear.

  I push his head forward and bring the ink to the back of his neck.

  “It’s warm,” he says. “And it tickles.”

  I roll my eyes. “Everything tickles you.” I keep my hand as steady as I can, but it’s still not as clean as I would have liked. The word Nine sprawls across the base of his neck in curving letters.

  I hand him a small mirror, and he examines my work. “That’s great,” he says with a bemused smile. “How am I supposed to attract the ladies now, with your name claiming me as your property?” He jumps up from his seat and beams. “Your turn.”

  “But—”

  “Ha! Don’t think you’re getting off that easy. Sit.”

  I sit and wonder how long this temporary ink will stay. With two days until we’re Remade, I guess it doesn’t matter.

  “Close your eyes,” Theron says.

  I sigh and obey, hoping he isn’t feeling vengeful. The ink is surprisingly hot, despite Theron’s warning. I feel the brush curve this way and that across my bare skull, down my neck and even toward my face. It’s soothing, and my shoulders relax. I could stay here awhile.

  “Okay, open.”

  I open my eyes and inspect Theron’s masterpiece. Thin and thick black lines swirl across my head and neck, each ending in decisive points. They weave a pattern that complements the curves and bends of my head. It’s beautiful—and decidedly feminine.

  “I love it,” I say, trying to determine what makes it feminine and wondering what it means that I really do like it.

  Theron’s eyes sparkle. “At least now I don’t mind being your property, if you’re looking like that.”

  I stand and pinch him on the arm. “Thanks, Dagan,” I say as we walk out.

  “Anytime,” he says. “And go get yourselves something else to wear before you attract unwanted attention.”

  “Will do.”

  I hop on Theron’s back and wrap my legs around his waist while we search for a suitable clothing shop. We pass a couple of Seekers in black jumpsuits with large firearms. They stare at us like we’re a couple of free-breakers about to disturb the peace. As long as we’re not infringing on anyone else’s free will, we should be safe. Maybe they’re out looking for someone lost in Freedom Central.

  I rest my head on Theron’s Nine tattoo and finger his tracker, a small sphere sitting just in the fold of his right ear. It’s fused to his skull through a thin layer of skin. You can’t see it unless you know where to look, and even then it’s barely noticeable.

  “I’m not lost, am I?” he asks, making a joke about his tracker, the device Seekers use to find people.

  “Not yet,” I mouth into his neck.

  “How about you, Nine? Are you lost?”

  I touch the metal stub just behind my ear. “No.” With Theron at my side—making me feel like I belong to something, someone, no matter where I am—I’ll never be lost.

  Hurrying past the suspicious stares of the Seekers, Theron takes us into a clothing shop. We spend ten points each for some new clothes. I go for a pair of sleek black pants and a long-sleeved, red cropped top lined with metal studs. Theron wears a leather vest and white slacks that rest low on his hips. It’s the first time we’ve worn anything but our gray and white issue, and though he looks like a completely different person, it is still so Theron.

  After feasting on sizzling meat sticks from a roadside vendor, we stop behind a throng of shouting people. A cage with walls of metal links rises twenty feet into the air. Two females are inside, kicking and punching and pushing and slamming. It’s a cage fight. I see the crowd waving their Freedom passes, making their wagers. Theron pulls me through the gathering to get a closer look. We emerge in front of the mass, just ahead of the enclosure. Theron’s eyes widen with excitement, following every move and motion. I watch too, trying to memorize their movements and follow their speed.

  One girl throws the other over her head onto the matted ground, and her opponent doesn’t get up. The crowd goes wild. Cards swipe across portable scanners. The cage opens, and the girl is dragged away, leaving the winning female
bouncing on her toes. She calls out for another challenger and waits while no one bites.

  “C’mon,” she shouts. “Surely one of you out there is daring enough to fight.” She’s tiny and can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds, far from intimidating. I wonder how she became so confident. Her stringy green hair bounces as she does. “Cowards,” she says with a hiss.

  Volunteering to get pummeled in a cage would be foolish. Reckless. Bold. The exact opposite of what I am. Before I can think too long about it, I climb the steps. “I’ll do it.”

  “Nine!” Theron is behind me in an instant. “What are you doing?”

  The woman laughs. “Don’t waste my time, Batchling.”

  “I’m no Batchling,” I say. “I’m here to fight.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Nine. Let’s go.” Theron pulls me hard, but I yank my arm away.

  “I want to do this.” I want to be brave, for once.

  Theron grips me so hard my arm throbs. “I won’t let you.”

  “All right,” the woman shouts. “The Batchling it is. Place your bets.” She waves me into the cage, but before I take another step, Theron yanks me away and pushes me down the steps. When I land at the bottom, I look up to see him closing the gate behind him as he takes my place in the cage.

  I run up and rattle the metal links. “This is my fight, Theron.”

  “Don’t be so cracked.”

  I slam my palm into the cage in frustration. How will I ever find my courage when Theron’s all too eager to protect me?

  “Let’s do this,” the woman says.

  Theron immediately lands a kick across her face that sends her to the floor, then another into her side while she’s down. She jumps up and jabs into his ribs, but his arms are up, protecting his torso. Her foot connects with his groin, but he doesn’t flinch. He pushes her against a metal wall, holding her there as she flails against him for any hit she can land. With a hard jab to his stomach Theron doubles over, and the woman brings her knee up into his face. He flies backward and onto the ground. Before he can get up, she jumps on him with a fist to his face, sending blood flying in my direction. He’s out.

  The woman stands and bets are settled as Theron is dragged out of the ring by a pair of identical-looking men with short curly hair and piercings running the length of their eyebrows.

  I follow the men to a small room in the back corner of the arena, where they lay Theron on a low table. I am gifted with a bucket of ice before they walk out again to wait for the next victim.

  Theron wakes and tries to sit up. “What happened?”

  “Hold on,” I say, pushing him down and placing a handful of ice on his already swelling cheek.

  “I lost?” he asks, genuinely surprised.

  “Yes, you lost. You’re such an idiot. What on earth was that?” I slap his forehead lightly with the back of my hand, and he rewards me with a painful groan.

  Theron’s bloodied lips curl into a smile. “That was me stopping you from getting killed, you idiot.”

  “I could’ve taken her,” I say. Though looking at the reality in front of me, I doubt I would’ve lasted ten seconds. I smile despite my brave words. “I guess we’ll never know now.”

  Theron sits up and moans.

  “What is it?” I ask, reaching for more ice. “Is it your head?”

  “No, my pants.”

  I look down to see a splatter of blood across his new white slacks. I laugh out loud. “You know, Theron, for someone bent on being a Healer, you sure risk getting hurt a lot.”

  “Side effect of being property of number Nine, I guess.”

  I wipe the blood off his face. “I’m sorry,” I say. It was crazy for me to want to fight, and now Theron’s suffering for it.

  He touches his hand to my face. “I didn’t want this to get messed up.” His fingers brush my cheek, and he slides off the table. “I think I’m ready for some of those mind-numbing drinks now.”

  I smile and slide my arm into his. “To the nightspots it is.”

  * * *

  It’s getting dark out. The sun has almost set by the time we reach the dance club closest to the gates. I feel the music thumping from outside, but it’s nothing compared to what’s just inside the heavy doors when we enter. I cover my ears with my hands to minimize the noise, but it only takes a few seconds to adjust, and I lower them again. A scented smoke fills the air, blurring my vision and numbing my senses. Theron’s lips move, but I can’t hear what he says. I shrug my shoulders, and he has to press his mouth against my ear.

  “Don’t let go,” he yells, holding up our knotted hands.

  I nod and let him lead me through the crowd. The room is so congested it’s impossible to avoid bumping into people. It’s dark, but light flashes from the floor, the walls, and the orbs suspended from the ceiling, letting me see Theron in front of me in brief flashes.

  I wonder how many of these people have someone to care for. To love. Someone who loves them back. How many of them live alone, their only contact with others in nightspots like this one? Because I don’t know how to live without Theron. If he wasn’t in my Batch, my life would be a hollow eggshell—something that once had the potential to hold existence but is now an empty fragile thing that could break with the slightest pressure. He fills the inside of me and makes me stronger.

  Theron hands me a drink from a counter, then grabs himself another. It’s the same fluorescent green from earlier in the day, and I swallow it in one long drink. The lights seem to flash faster, and the pounding bass of the music hypnotizes me.

  I drag him to the middle of a dancing crowd. There are so many bodies, we’re like a giant being with a thousand limbs moving in a wild rhythm. I raise my arms high above me and jump and twist to the repetitive beat. The thunderous booming of synthesizers drowns out my thoughts.

  Closing my eyes, I get lost in the rhythm, not thinking—just feeling. The thump, thump, thump of my heart feels like it will explode out of my chest, and I know this is what Theron means. This is freedom. I jump higher and higher, willing the Earth to release me. To reach such a high that it can’t hold me down any longer. It’s almost enough to make me forget who I am and who, in just two more days, I will have used to be.

  Almost.

  A loud and steady beeping throbs inside my head. I groan. I don’t want to wake up yet, but my head is on fire. After a late night of loud music, wild dancing, and endless buzz drinks, I’m paying for it now.

  “Get up, Nine!” a voice shouts from across the room. A pillow lands with a thud on my head. “And turn off your transmitter.”

  Moans from a few other sleepy Batch members join in complaint.

  So it’s not just in my head. The beeping is to inform me I have a message waiting.

  I open my eyes and hiss at the hurt the light brings to the already throbbing ache in my head. Sitting up slowly, I groan again as I reach for my transmitter device on the shelf above me. I slide my finger across the screen, and after blinking my eyes a few times to adjust to the light, I try to read the glowing message.

  Batch member Nine to meet with Prime Maker at 09:00 hours in the Core building, Room 001.

  I glance at the current time on my transmitter: 08:53. I wonder how long the beeping has been going on. I crawl to the bed next to mine and shake the boy lying there. “Wake up, Theron.” His snoring doesn’t break its pattern. He’s as good as dead. Grr.

  I stumble to the toilets and cringe at my reflection. Running the water at the washbasins, I try to rub the black ink off my head, with no luck. I’ve never met the Prime Maker before. No one has met the Prime Maker before. And she wants to see me. Me? The day before I’m Remade. I hope I’m not in trouble for the Freedom passes. I frown at myself in the mirror—I’m still wearing the studded red top and black pants from the night before. With no time to change, I sprint out of our Batch tower toward the Core building, eight blocks north.

  I’m late. Really late. I’m certain of it as I run into the reception area on the ground
floor, out of breath. I smile at the man behind the metal desk, who scowls at me. I’m late and hungover with a tattoo on my head. I look down and try to smooth the wrinkles on my shirt, only to realize one side of my pants is torn up to my thigh. I sigh and give up.

  “I received a transmission this morning,” I say. “I’m here to see the Prime Maker.”

  “She’s waiting for you,” he says flatly. “Go on in.” He points to a door behind him that reads: ERIDIAN, PRIME MAKER.

  I take a deep breath, lift my head, and let myself in the room.

  A tall woman in a sleek gray pantsuit greets me. “Nine?” She holds her hand out, and I shake it, shocked at how cold her touch is. “My goodness, it really is you.” Her voice is high and clear, and I realize it’s the one I’ve heard so often through my earpiece during my academic modules.

  “Have we met before, er . . .” I don’t know what to call her. Eridian? Prime Maker? Freedom sovereign?

  “Eridian,” she says. “But please, call me Eri.” Her smile reveals brilliant white teeth. She smooths her hair back, a familiar blazing red that’s pulled into a tight knot behind her head. I rub my scalp, feeling the barely-there hair growth, wondering why anyone would actually choose that awful color.

  “And, no, we haven’t met,” she continues. “Although I remember the day you were Made.” Her eyes wander down my body, brows puckering as she takes in my non-standard clothing and adorned skull. She steps forward and runs a finger along my cheekbone. “Your freckles hadn’t come in yet.”

  I flinch at her icy touch, and my hands ball up at my sides at the reminder of why I’ve chosen to be a Maker—though I don’t dare ask why I was Made this way. I’m not sure how I should address the leader of our province. So I just stand there and wait for her to continue.

  “Have a seat, Nine.” Eri motions to a chair in front of a glossy black desk. She walks to the other side, her heeled shoes clicking as she goes, and slides her fingers back and forth across a clear computer screen. I cross and uncross my legs, looking around while I wait for her to find whatever it is she’s searching for.