Remake Page 5

  “The water is gorgeous,” I say.

  “Too bad we can’t get closer.”

  My eyes find the glint of barbed wire topping a thirty-foot high fence along the edge of the beach. I surprise myself by wishing the same thing.

  “Why do you think they trap us in?” Theron asks. “What’s so terrible about getting out?”

  “I don’t think it’s so much about keeping us in, as making sure other things stay out.” Most in my Batch have a fear of the ocean, though I wonder if they’d change their minds seeing it from up here. We learned as children of the dangers the ocean poses. Creatures that swallow men whole or tear off limbs, piece by piece. I’ve heard rumors of people escaping, but I doubt any of them are true.

  And then there’s the Virus. The one said to have originated from the ocean itself, killing millions of humans centuries ago, when we didn’t fully understand what implications a crowded Earth would have on the sea. It fought back, in its own way, killing that which was killing it. With small Batches to control the population now, I don’t think the Virus will ever be a problem again. It doesn’t make the water any less fearsome, though.

  I lean my head against Theron’s neck and watch the movement of the white-water edge. I can almost hear the lapping of water against the shore. Taste the cool and salty air. Would I choose to sail away from Freedom like a ship on the ocean, or stay, wedged in place like a shell in the sand? I glimpse Theron’s face, the holograms casting a flickering glow across his skin. Which would Theron choose? Safety or adventure? I know the answer, and I know it’d be the opposite of what I’d choose. I wonder whether my choice would be different after being Remade. Or if maybe it’s a male thing.

  Theron grabs my hands and presses my palms against the top of his head. I massage his scalp. His head is still smooth after the two-days-ago shearing. He sighs and closes his eyes.

  “I went to see the Prime Maker today.” I say it like it’s not a big deal, making it a pretty big deal.

  “What?” Theron pushes me, and I fall backward onto the pile of blankets. “When? Why didn’t you tell me?” He falls next to me, and I prop my head up by my elbow, turning to face him.

  “This morning, while you were passed out.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And what?” I bite my lip to keep from laughing. It’s amusing to watch Theron grow red in the face with anticipation. He’s made me forget my distressing morning on the Maker level, and I love him for it.

  “You little scab,” he says, sitting up again. He grabs both my arms and shakes them, as though that’ll get me to talk. “Tell me.” I bet he doesn’t even notice my efforts to fight back.

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll tickle you to death.”

  “You don’t have any hands free.” Bubbling laughter escapes my mouth. “And you’re the ticklish one, remember? Not me.”

  “Well, there’s that one spot.” He tries to pull one of his hands away, but my free arm pushes his chest, and he changes his mind. He holds both my arms again.

  “Ha!” I say. “Good luck with that.”

  With a knowing grin, Theron carefully grips both arms with one hand.

  “Oh, no.”

  He digs his fingers into the side of my belly. I scream in bursts and try desperately to roll away from him, to no avail. I’m breathless, and it takes a minute for Theron to hear my pleas among his own loud laughter.

  “Okay,” I squeal between short, quick breaths. “I give up. I’ll tell you. Please . . . stop.”

  He releases my arms and stops tickling, then lays his head on my stomach and turns to face me. “I’m staying close,” he says. “Just in case.”

  Propping a bundled blanket beneath my head, I grin and breathe out a relief-filled, “Fine.”

  He pulls my hands back to his head to massage some more.

  “I got a transmission,” I say, still out of breath, “to go see her this morning. I was late and still wearing my cracked Freedom clothes—and this.” I point to my adorned head.

  Theron nods with a lopsided grin, and his eyes sparkle, like the story is just getting to the good part. “What did she look like?”

  “Like a silver needle with blood beading at the tip. She has red hair, like me.” I make a face. “And she told me to call her ‘Eri.’”

  “Scary Eri . . .”

  “She was nice enough, but she called me all the way to her office just to tell me I couldn’t be a Maker.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrug my shoulders. I don’t want to tell Theron I’m an experiment. He wouldn’t treat me any different, but saying it out loud would admit he was right—I am deliberate, though not in the special way he thinks. I don’t want to ruin that idea he has of me. “She said I could choose a Trade and name after I’m Remade, since there’s not really any time left.”

  “Hmm. Maybe you could be a Tattoo Artist. You did a fine job on me.”

  “Shut up.” Tattoo Artist would mean needles. Again, no thanks.

  “Or a Seeker,” Theron says. “That Trade’s pretty high-status. And I’d never be able to get rid of you—since you could find me anywhere.” His hand brushes my weak tickle spot, and I smack his bald head in warning.

  I touch the tracker behind Theron’s right ear. Seekers work in the Core building too, when they aren’t in the field on searches or detaining free-breakers. I remember a Batch trip we made to the Core as children. I was in awe of the amount of computers they used and the screen the size of a three-story building. Blinking lights moved slowly across a giant map of Freedom, giving the location of every citizen in the province. Remembering what Eridian had said about why I was Made, I wonder if Seekers have anything to do with keeping track of me—the experiment.

  “How about a Techie?” Theron asks. “I hear they sit around and gamble all day.”

  “Yeah, what do Techies even do?”

  “They detect technology. So I guess they’re like Seekers, only they hunt for electrical energy instead of humans.”

  “But why?” I ask.

  “In case Eri loses her message transmitter. Duh.” Theron rolls his eyes as though it’s the most logical thing in the world. “The province will crumble if its Prime Maker can’t summon Batchers at a moment’s notice while they suffer from a hangover.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Such a demanding Trade. Hence the gambling.”

  “I wonder if it’s too late to switch my Trade choice.”

  “You can’t change,” I say. “If I become a Techie, who’s gonna support my gambling habit? I need the high points your Healer status will bring in.”

  Theron slides up next to me and shares my makeshift pillow. “We’re sharing an apartment. So if I’m bringing home the points, what are you providing?”

  “Something nice to look at?” I suggest.

  Theron shakes his head and smiles. “Not good enough. What else?”

  “I can cook,” I say, although we both laugh at that suggestion. Theron knows what terrible food I’ve attempted to make in the past. As with most things, between the two of us, he’s the expert.

  I sigh. “I have no idea what I should choose.”

  I wish we had someone to talk to about all this. Someone who’s been through it before and could tell us what it’s like and what our choices really mean. Because stumbling into our lives by accident doesn’t seem like the wisest thing in the world. But what else can we do? At least with Theron beside me, I won’t stumble alone.

  I shrug. “Maybe I’ll know better what Trade I’ll want after I’m Remade.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Theron?”

  He raises his eyebrows. His blue eyes stare into mine, waiting for me to continue.

  “Do you think they’ll keep us separated?” I voice a concern I’ve had for a while. “During our recovery, I mean?”

  “I don’t know.” He pauses as though thinking about it. “Your Remake might be more involved than mine.”

  I nod, knowing if I decide to becom
e male, my Remake will be more complicated. “It’s just . . . I can’t remember a night I’ve ever spent without you near me.”

  “I know.” Theron wraps his arm around me and pulls me tight against him.

  My body relaxes. My best friend. This is home.

  “I can promise you I’ll be there with you as soon as I can,” he says. “And a month is not so long compared to the rest of our lives. We’ll be back in Freedom in no time, together and never apart again.”

  “You promise?”

  Theron pinches the tip of my nose. “I promise. I’ll never leave you, Nine. I love you.”

  “I love you too.” I can’t imagine us closer than we already are. Should I remain female? It makes sense, doesn’t it, Theron and me together? But as a friend or something more, I’m not sure.

  A familiar buzzing comes from Theron’s pocket. He pulls out his transmitter, squints at the screen and grins. He turns it toward me, and I see the time: 00:00. It’s midnight.

  “Happy Maker Day,” he says.

  We’re seventeen today. Ready for our Remake. Officially adults and citizens of the Freedom province.

  “Happy Maker Day, Theron.” I frown, realizing this may be our last stolen moment together for a long time. I try to memorize the feel of his arms around me, the smell of his skin, hoping it will carry me through lonely nights after my Remake. And hoping that after all of our changes, this same feeling will welcome me—welcome both of us—after we are Remade.

  The metal platform feels cold against my naked skin and makes me flinch. I want to hurry and get through this station so I can join Theron in the commuter taking us to the Core building. There we’ll make the final selections for our Remake then head for the shuttle port. Not that I’ve made a decision on my gender choice yet, but being near Theron relaxes me, and I’m definitely not feeling relaxed right now.

  “Don’t move.” The female Healer’s voice is quiet, distant. “You need to lie still for the scanner.”

  I start to nod but stop myself. “Okay,” I say instead, though my voice is so soft I wonder if she hears me from outside my medical cocoon. An electronic voice from the body-scanning machine tells me to hold my breath, so I do. Blinding light shines into my eyes and makes me shut my eyelids. I hope it’s okay to close my eyes. The light is warm, and I feel the heat travel down my body, an arc of illumination scanning every part of me.

  The light comes back toward my head and shuts off. I open my eyes. It’s dark as night now. There’s no voice to tell me I can breathe again, but I can’t hold my breath any longer. I gasp for air and shut my eyes again, starting to feel claustrophobic. Just as I’m about to say something to the Healer, who I hope is still outside the scanner, the platform slides out of the machine into the medical room, and I gratefully breathe in the expansive air.

  I start to sit up, but the Healer shakes her head at me. My head hits the metal under me with a loud thunk as I try to remain still. She holds a portable computer and slides her fingers across the screen.

  “Any numbness in your fingers or toes?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Blurry vision?”

  “No.”

  “Do you ever feel short of breath or overly anxious?”

  Only when I’m in a medical coffin. I shake my head and wonder why she asks me these questions. Doesn’t the full-body scanner give her everything she needs to know about me? A cold air current comes from a high corner in the room, and I shiver.

  The Healer puts her computer on a table and picks up a length of cloth that has been sitting in a bucket filled with pale blue liquid. She brings it to my scalp and wipes away my tattoo. The cloth tingles my skin and smells of peppermint. Evidence of my Freedom excursion is gone in under a minute, ink staining the formerly spotless fabric. She drops it back into the bucket, wipes her hands on her medic pants and leaves the room.

  I’m still naked and cold, and after a few minutes I sit up, not knowing what else I should do. A man with shoulder-length navy blue hair walks in. He wears a black jumpsuit with a red star in a white circle on each of his shoulders. He holds what looks like a miniature firearm in his hands. He’s a Seeker, and unlike the Healer who had just been with me, he gives me a wide, warm smile.

  “Last thing on the list today, kid,” he says. “I just need to test your tracker and make sure it’s working.”

  “With that?” I ask, pointing to the weapon, hoping against hope there’s no needle involved in testing my tracker.

  He holds it up in front of him. “It’s not so bad.” A trigger and handle connects to a long tube made of clear plastic. “I push this end”—he points to the nozzle—“against your tracking device and pull. If there’s a green light, here, at my thumb, you’re good to go. If it’s red, we’ll do a quick replacement.”

  “Replacement?”

  “Sure. You don’t want to be walking around with a faulty tracker, do you?”

  Another tracker installation? Oh, please no. I still remember the day it was installed when I was four years old, my first memory. It had taken three adults to hold me down while they inserted the oversized needle into my skull. I screamed and still recall the loud whack echoing in my head for the rest of the day. Not fun. I’m no fourth-year anymore, but I still make a silent plea for the cracked light to turn green.

  He must sense my panic because he brings the gun closer so I can get a better look. “The diodes, here at the end of the tube, signal the tracker to release from your brain tissue. Try to get it out any other way, and . . .” He makes a slicing motion with the gun across his neck.

  Yeah, that doesn’t make me feel better.

  “You’ll need to lie on your stomach,” he says.

  I obey and flinch again as the cold metal touches my bare skin. The Seeker turns my head so I’m looking to my right. I gasp when the nozzle snaps over the tracker, like two magnets suddenly sticking to each other. A shock rattles my head and makes me gasp again.

  “Green,” he says. “You’re good.”

  I sigh with relief and sit up again.

  “There’s a fresh set of clothes on the chair, there.” The Seeker points to a spot behind me. “And don’t worry. It’ll be the last pair of gray and white you’ll ever have to wear. Promise.” He winks and walks to the door. “Good luck with your Remake.”

  I smile and get dressed, anxious to leave the Healer building. The woman Healer returns and leads me to a commuter parked just outside the building. I climb aboard and see Theron sitting in the back, his head leaning against a window, gazing outside. I bounce from foot to foot, making my way to him while ignoring glares from Cree and Sora as I pass them.

  Theron looks up and smiles at me. “I guess you didn’t need a new tracker, then, with that smirk on your face.”

  I collapse into him, and he winces. “Oh, Theron,” I say, seeing the bandage behind his ear. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You are not.”

  “I am. It must’ve been awful. Terrible. Brutal.”

  “Wipe that cracked grin off, then, if you feel that bad about it.”

  I kiss his ear with a giggle. “I really am sorry for you.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He pulls me onto his lap and wipes the commuter window with his hand. “Check it out. It’s raining.”

  “Whoa.” Sure enough the roads are wet, and I can almost see drops falling from the sky. It hardly ever rains in Freedom. “Maybe it’s an omen. A bad one.”

  “Nah. It’s a good sign. Freedom is sending us off with a bang.”

  Just as he says the words, a beam of light flashes in the distance, followed a few seconds later by the sound of thunder.

  “A bang, huh?”

  Theron turns to me and slides his hand across my tattoo-free head with a frown. “My masterpiece is gone.”

  “I know.” I feel him trace the lines of a pattern no longer there. “I’ll miss it too.”

  “At least you can’t tell me what to do anymore.” Theron pulls down his tank at the back of his neck
. “I’m no longer your property.” Sure enough, the tattoo scrawl of my name is gone.

  I scowl. “First thing when we return to Freedom, you’re getting a tattoo of my name, permanent this time, on the back of your neck. I’m not releasing my hold over you that easily.”

  “Ooh,” Theron says, scrunching his shoulders. “I’m so scared.”

  Another boom of thunder fills our ears. I give him a wicked smile. “You should be.”

  * * *

  My light mood disappears as we pull in across the street from the Core building. The rain has stopped, but the darkening sky is a promise of more to come, I think. I linger in back as each member of our Batch exits the commuter, then finally follow Theron off and glance to the building. I can’t help but look to the side of it . . . where a heavy door leads to a stairwell, and the stairwell leads to an abandoned hallway, and that hallway leads to—

  “Hey, are you okay?” Theron turns me toward him and looks back and forth between my eyes, as though they’ll tell him what he needs to know.

  Only now do I notice my shallow breathing and shaking hands. I don’t want to go in there. Not when I’ve seen what happens two stories down. Not when I’ve heard those awful sounds of terror. Of course I don’t exactly know what I saw, but I know it isn’t good.

  “Nine, you’re going to be fine.” He lifts my chin and gives me a lopsided smile. “Don’t think about it too hard. Because whatever you decide, you’ll still be you. That’s all that matters.”

  He thinks I’m nervous because of my Remake questions. I nod, knowing the sooner I choose, the sooner we’ll leave and be on our way to the Remake continent. And I won’t have to worry about Sub-level Two for a long time.

  Theron tilts his head toward the Core building across the street. “I’ll race you there.”

  A smile grows on my face, and my apprehension melts away. A memory surfaces of a day long ago, when we were young Batchers, maybe fifth- or sixth-years.

  Our Batch had been playing in an indoor recreation room with climbing equipment and an open space for running around. Everyone was playing Seeker Track, a game that involved chasing each other and tagging players on their right ear, like Seekers catching you by your tracker. The kids refused to let me join in, and I ended up in a corner, huddled against myself with my head down.