Impostors Read online

  Scrambling back out of the hatch, I yell, “Let’s move!”

  “Wait.” Col is staring at something in his hands.

  The screen. The tinny sounds of newsfeed. Triumphant music, an exuberant announcer.

  “What the hell, Col?” I jump up onto the hoverboard behind him. “We have to go!”

  “But they just said …” He looks up, stares, like he doesn’t recognize me.

  Then his eyes drop back to the screen.

  “Holy crap,” he says. “There’s two of you.”

  There’s no time to talk, not with the rescue beacon blaring.

  We ride hard and fast, keeping beneath the treetops, weaving through trunks and branches. Heading inland toward the mountains and the rebels.

  I wonder what happens when we reach them. Col was right before—the rebels wouldn’t let First Daughter Rafia join up, not in a hundred years.

  But Frey? Maybe she has something to offer.

  I don’t know anymore.

  Col is just as confused as me. When we stop to rest, he doesn’t say much, or meet my eye. And I remember what Rafi always told me growing up … This isn’t normal.

  She meant that my father was wrong to hide me. That I didn’t deserve to have my existence erased. But my sister’s words also taught me what a freak I was.

  That must be how Col sees me now—as some kind of aberration. Like a littlie lost in the forest and raised by wolves. Weird and tragic. Probably dangerous.

  Of course, the whole world is dangerous now.

  When hovercars glimmer in the distance, forcing us to hide, they’re always in Shreve colors, not Victorian. My father has won. The only signs of resistance are wisps of smoke on the horizon.

  It doesn’t help that all the food in my escape kit is gone. Rabbits dot the forest floor, but we can’t risk another fire. So we’re hungry, exhausted, and Col keeps backtracking. He’s looking for something, but he won’t say what.

  He doesn’t trust me anymore.

  I thought when he learned my secret, he would understand the ally I could be. But instead, he doesn’t even know who I am.

  The hoverboard is almost out of charge when he finally finds the perfect spot to land in, a long stretch of clearing with plenty of sun.

  We unfold the solar panels and sit under a tree. We’ll be stuck here for a while. Nothing to do but talk about what comes next.

  But instead Col picks up the handscreen.

  “Don’t bother checking,” I say. “What you saw was real. There’s another version of me back in Shreve. The genuine Rafi.”

  He turns the screen on anyway, stares at it for a moment.

  “Here’s what I don’t get,” he says. “Why isn’t the whole Shreve army out here looking for us? The soldiers back there saw your face.”

  I shrug. “Maybe nobody believed them? The army doesn’t know there’s two of me.”

  “Two of you,” Col mutters at the screen, then looks up. “How did they hide you all this time?”

  It takes a moment to answer. Telling these secrets feels like pulling my own teeth. But I need Col to understand the truth of me.

  “There are special hallways in my father’s house, just for me. Limos with hidden sections, private suites in all the clubs and hotels. Only about a dozen people ever saw me and Rafi together.”

  “But why?”

  “To keep her safe. She only appears in places where we trust everyone. Anytime she had to go out into a crowd of randoms—public speeches, ceremonies, dancing at nightclubs—it was always me instead.”

  “All that trouble …” Col looks down at the screen again. “So he really does love her, doesn’t he?”

  “It’s more than that. He lost our brother to kidnappers, and he hates to lose.”

  For a moment, Col looks ill. “And we thought we were safe with you under our roof.”

  “You weren’t.”

  Col doesn’t answer.

  “You can blame me for all of it.” I need to say this out loud, so it doesn’t keep echoing in my head. “Losing your home. Your family. It happened because of me.”

  Maybe I’m expecting Col to argue. But he doesn’t say a word.

  So I keep talking into the silence.

  “I didn’t know how to warn you. I’ve never had to tell anyone about this before. Back home, there was never anyone I could tell, without them …” My voice falters. This isn’t the right time to explain about Sensei Noriko, how knowing my secret can kill someone. “I really didn’t think he’d sacrifice me.”

  “Your sister looks so happy.” His eyes are glued to the screen.

  My stomach clenches. “Rafi plays her role well. Always.”

  “But she must think you’re dead. And she’s smiling.”

  He holds up the screen for me to see.

  I turn away. I don’t want to see Rafi act the part of the triumphant, resourceful daughter. Or think about what she’s feeling now.

  I’d rather imagine her tantrum when my father told her I was dead. I hope she hit him, even if she can’t throw a punch to save her life.

  Col turns on the volume, and the tinny sound of crowds and martial music fills the air. His eyes narrow, and he glances from me to the screen, like he’s comparing our faces.

  I get up and walk away.

  The world is spinning under me. I’ve escaped my father but lost everything else—my home, my sister, my city. My only ally doesn’t know what to think of me.

  What am I supposed to do now? Start my own army?

  It was much easier being a secret. I only had to worry about half a life.

  A rush of sound fills the air, and I almost dive for cover. But it’s just wind in the leaves.

  Col chose this forest clearing well. It lets sunlight down for the board’s panels, but any aircraft would have to pass straight overhead to spot us.

  But it’s odd how long and narrow the clearing is. Too straight to be natural.

  I kneel to take a closer look, and find an ancient layer of permacrete below the shallow topsoil. So that’s why trees don’t grow here. This was some kind of Rusty construction.

  I remember my warfare tutor explaining that most ancient aircraft couldn’t hover—they needed “runways” to take off and land. The clearing is at least a kilometer long, a typical Rusty waste of space.

  But if aircraft landed here, some kind of ruin must be close.

  I walk back to Col.

  “Do you know about any—”

  “I need to ping my brother.” He holds up the handscreen. “To tell him I’m alive. Can I use this?”

  I take a slow breath, reminded that Col has bigger things to worry about than me. I’d love to let my own sister know I’m okay.

  “Sorry, Col. But that’s Shreve military issue. If you send a message with it, they’ll find us.”

  He swears, his grip tightening on the screen. “It’s locked on your city’s propaganda feeds. Which are brain-missing! They’re saying my mother threatened to hurt you. Like destroying my home was some kind of rescue mission.”

  “It’s not about logic, Col. It’s just how things work there.”

  He sighs. “I know. We spent months studying your city. The newsfeeds do whatever they’re told.”

  “It’s more than that. People in Shreve fear my father, but they love Rafi. For a whole night, everyone thought she was dead—that they were left with just him. They’re so happy she’s alive, they’ll believe anything.”

  “That’s what our psych team said.” Col looks up from the screen. “Everyone in Shreve knows he’s a murderer. But when Rafi stands next to him, he’s also a father. She’s what makes him human.”

  I have to turn away. The truth of that lives in my bones, but I’ve never heard anyone say it out loud before.

  “So what if everyone finds out there’s another Rafi?” Col goes on. “A daughter he threw away? With a dozen glued-together bones from training to be killer?”

  I remember the pity on Aribella’s face when she told
me about the body scans.

  Not normal.

  But Col’s face is lighting up.

  “Then he’s not a father anymore. We could hurt him. Show everyone that he’s …” He pauses. “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head. It’s hard to breathe.

  When Rafi goes to a party, thousands of people watch and comment on what she wears, who she talks to. How many eyes would land on me if I told the freakish truth about us?

  Millions.

  I’d melt away. Erased at last.

  “It’s just I’ve never told anyone this secret before, Col. And you’re talking about telling the whole world.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think …” His voice fades. He stands up, takes my shoulders.

  The world steadies a little.

  “It’s your secret to tell,” he says. “Not mine.”

  The words replay in my head—once, twice—until I understand them.

  It’s a promise not to throw me away.

  I take a slow breath. “Why would you care, Col? After all my lies? After what my father did to you?”

  “That’s complicated,” he says.

  I look up at him. Does he mean there’s still something between us? Even after everything?

  “If you go public with the truth, it will hurt your father.”

  “I want to hurt him.”

  As I say the words, the old, familiar ecstasy twinges in me—the thrill of combat coming on. A trickle of hum in my veins, but this isn’t about fighting.

  For the first time in my life, I have something to wield beyond my fists.

  The truth of me has power.

  “When you’re ready, I’ll help you tell everyone,” Col says. “I couldn’t be sure about Rafi. But you and I still have an alliance, Frey.”

  I meet his eyes. This is the first time he’s used my real name. The first time anyone has who I’ve given it to myself.

  Which makes me ask—

  “An alliance? Is that all this is?”

  He looks away. “That’s also complicated.”

  A sudden anger rushes through me.

  “Of course, it’s complicated, Col! You’re the son of a cultured first family, and I’m a freak who’s been hidden in secret passages her whole life. A killing machine! The daughter of—”

  “It’s not that, Frey. There’s something I have to tell you, about that kiss.”

  I take a step back. “What do you mean?”

  He hesitates a moment, shakes his head.

  “First, let me show you why we’re here.”

  He leads me toward the near end of the clearing.

  “This used to be a Rusty airport,” he says.

  I remember his long, winding search for the perfect spot to recharge. “So you were looking for this place?”

  Col nods, gestures down the runway. “We chose it because you don’t need navigation equipment to find it. The missing strip of forest is obvious from the air.”

  “Chose it for what?” I ask.

  Col doesn’t answer, just leads me under the canopy of trees at the end of the clearing.

  It’s cool in here, despite the noon sun. When I flick on my heat vision for a moment, scurrying animals appear around us. Nothing big enough to be dangerous, but when I switch back to normal vision, my hand stays on the knife.

  “Watch your step,” he says. A steep decline has opened up before us.

  We descend into what looks like a crater. Except the four sides are oddly straight, and craters aren’t square.

  “More ruins?”

  “The foundation of a tower, part of the airport.” Col wobbles on a loose piece of stone, steadies himself. “All the metal was stripped a century ago.”

  “But there’s still something valuable down here?”

  He looks back to give me another smile, then keeps going.

  The walls of the crater are old and crumbling—not the safest climb. But it gives me time to think.

  What does all this have to do with our kiss?

  What did he mean, That’s complicated?

  At the bottom of the crater is a rectangular stretch of level ground, about the size of the Palafoxes’ ballroom. The trees down in this darkness are spindly, as if trying to reach up for sunlight.

  Col is looking for something.

  “They only brought me here once, two years ago. So this might take a—”

  He halts, stomps on the ground.

  A hollow sound echoes.

  It takes us five minutes to clear the door of fallen branches and leaves. It’s made of some kind of camo-plastic.

  “No metal at all.” Col spreads his right hand on the lock. The plastic comes alive, lighting up. “We made sure this place was worthless to salvagers.”

  The door sighs open, revealing an empty square of blackness. A stale smell rises up, desiccant and anti-mold nanos.

  “Lights,” Col calls down.

  He smiles again as they flicker on.

  “Watch out,” he says. “The ladder can be wobbly.”

  The bunker, as Col calls it, is about as big as my father’s private swimming pool.

  It has a low ceiling, made of the same plastic as the door. A dozen columns bear the weight of the forest overhead. They’re made of real wood, still no metal.

  This place is hidden well.

  Shelves line the walls, stacked with plastic cases. Each one has a palm-print lock like the outer door.

  “Let me guess—only Palafoxes can open these.”

  “And a few people we trust,” Col says. He’s scanning the labels on the cases, which are in some kind of code.

  “So this is what your mother meant?” I ask. “When she said you had some surprises for my father.”

  “Part of it, yes.”

  I frown. “But you heard that from Yandre, who overheard your mom at the party. And you knew about this place two years ago.”

  Col shrugs. “Yes, Frey. I may have lied to you a few times.”

  I raise my hands in surrender. “Fair enough.”

  He pulls one of the cases from a shelf. It reads his palm and opens, revealing a disassembled weapon in packing foam.

  “Tell me about this,” he says.

  I kneel beside the case, lift up the barrel. It’s made of spacecraft ceramics. Light as cardboard, strong as hull armor.

  “It’s a spheromak plasma gun. Twenty megabars, one-shot hydrogen battery. Organic manganese magnets, so it won’t show up on a metal detector.”

  “It says all that on the case, Frey. But what does it mean?”

  “It spits out plasma rings. Knocks down hovercars.” I look around the room—all those shelves. “Or buildings, if you had enough of them.”

  “Trust me, we do.” Col looks up. “You think the rebels would be interested?”

  “They’d be thrilled. Their problem’s always been no hovercars, no heavy weapons.” I shrug. “That’s what you get for living in the wild.”

  Col leans back with a smile of satisfaction.

  “You had all this stuff,” I say. “So why didn’t you fight the rebels on your own? Why bring my father into it?”

  “Because when you hit the rebels, they just fade back into the wild.” Col takes the barrel of the plasma gun from my hand. “Knocking them out for good means doing things that we didn’t want to do. Like using these on human beings.”

  “Which my father was happy to do.”

  Col nods. “My family worries a lot about appearances. But the dirty work still gets done.”

  He’s not showing me all this just to prove that the rebels will welcome him. This room has something to do with the two of us.

  I sit cross-legged beside him on the cool cement floor.

  “Why are we here, Col?”

  “I want you to understand my family.” He gestures at the row of cases. “This is who we are.”

  Each of these guns could take out one hoverstrut, a dozen of them sending a skyscraper crashing to the ground. Col might be disgusted by my pulse knife, b
ut his family is hoarding enough firepower to wreck a city.

  “You Palafoxes,” I say. “You’re like Rafi on the outside. But on the inside you’re … me.”

  Col speaks softly, clearly. “You have to understand, Frey. Victoria’s a small city. To protect ourselves, we do things we don’t want to do. I never wanted to deceive you.”

  I stare at him. “When, exactly?”

  “Every second since you met me, Frey.” He takes a slow breath. “I always knew you were a hostage in my home. My mother and I had a plan for you, and pretending I was innocent was part of it.”

  “What?” My hands are shaking.

  “Our kiss was part of it too.”

  I can hear the words that Col just said. There’s a recording of them playing over and over in my brain.

  But they don’t make sense.

  He’s staring at me, waiting for a response.

  “You knew I was a hostage?”

  He nods. “It was my idea.”

  My gaze drifts past him. The rows of weapons stretch into infinity.

  I can’t breathe.

  “Your father’s a monster,” Col says. “He would always be a danger to our city. But we wondered if you, his heir, might be different.”

  “I’m not the heir,” I manage. “She is.”

  “Of course. But we thought we were getting the real Rafi. So we decided to learn all about her.” He leans back as he continues, and I realize something awful—he’s using his tour guide voice. “When we started negotiations with your father, we sent newsfeed cams to cover your city. But they were really remote polygraphs, there to spy on Rafia. Whenever either of you appeared in public, they measured your pulse, blood pressure, galvanic response.”

  I stare at him, feeling like my skin is being stripped away.

  “At the same time,” he says, “we did a psych analysis of every recording we could find—back to when you were a littlie. Studied your eye movements, micro-gestures, vocal intonations.”

  I shake my head. “What did all that tell you?”

  “That you started to break when you were seven.”

  “Seven?” My voice fades. “When I started training?”

  “Exactly.”