Impostors Read online

  He lowers his field glasses. But he’s still looking out over the ocean, not at me.

  “Sometimes it’s like we’re fighting two different wars,” he says.

  I shrug. “You’re trying to save your city. I’m just trying to save my sister. That must seem small to you.”

  He finally turns to me.

  “Frey. Your whole life, you had to hide—private suites, secret compartments, hidden hallways, small spaces. But that doesn’t mean you’re small.”

  I wrap my arms around myself, wanting to disappear under this open sky. “What am I, then?”

  “Angry, unyielding, fierce.” He narrows his eyes, like he’s looking for the truth of me. “Strange and dangerous.”

  “Like a pulse knife?”

  “I guess. And loyal too. Maybe the best word is steadfast.”

  I look away. “That’s a tour guide word.”

  “Yeah.” He shrugs. “How about I make it yours?”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  He drops his hands and bows, like he’s asking me to dance. “I swear to you, Frey, I’ll never call anyone else steadfast.”

  As I laugh at this, something crumbles inside me. Something that had turned to stone so gradually, I hadn’t even realized.

  “That’s the nicest promise anyone’s ever made me.”

  A smile breaks on his face.

  “I can do better, once we …” He turns to the ocean, reaching for his weapon. “Hear that?”

  I squint out across the water, switching to heat vision. In the distance, I can make out three bright constellations of lifting fans.

  “It’s them.”

  We sink into the rocks. Seal our sneak suits. Hit the priming triggers on our plasma guns.

  The pulse of battle builds now. My tension, coiled inside me all day, is strung taut and shimmering.

  Col’s promise echoes in my ears, and I am steadfast. Ready to fight.

  The three hovercars come skimming low across the waves. An iridescent spray plumes from their lifting fans.

  They’re slowing down. Spreading out, like big cats hunting. Cautious, now that we’ve stopped running.

  Soon they’re close enough that I can see their black-and-gray livery, the battle scars on their hulls. One hovers at a crooked angle, its left rear engine flame-blackened and silent.

  My finger itches to squeeze the firing trigger.

  But the formation glides to a halt, just out of range. I swear softly under my breath, wanting the fight to begin.

  One of the three cars rises a little into the air. And something odd happens.

  The belly hatch opens, and a long piece of metal is lowered down. At first it looks like an antenna or a signal jammer.

  But tied to it is a white flag.

  “It’s a lie,” I say.

  Col lowers his aim. “Why would they surrender?”

  “They wouldn’t. And if they wanted to parley, they’d use radio, not a flag.”

  I squint through the scope on my gun. The white flag is smudged and threadbare. Like someone’s T-shirt pressed into a higher purpose.

  It hangs limp in the still air.

  “This has to be a trick,” I say.

  “It’s three to one. They don’t need to trick us.” He reaches for the field glasses. “Or maybe they suspect an ambush?”

  I look at our hovercar on the floodplain, its solar panels splayed out, defenseless. The two peaks looming over it with crisscrossing fields of fire.

  I shrug. “As ambushes go, it’s not what I’d call subtle.”

  “I’m going to ask Zura.” Col reaches for his ear.

  I grab his hand. “If we ping her, they’ll know we’re here. We might as well wave our own white flag!”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “Wait for them to get closer.” I turn back to my rifle, peer through the scope. “Then shoot them.”

  Col lets out a sigh. In the end, of course, all these decisions are on him. He always feels the weight of keeping his soldiers safe.

  But this is where I’m an expert. A false flag of surrender is exactly something my father would do.

  A ping comes in my ear—Zura’s voice.

  Shreve craft. Please state your purpose.

  I nod. She’s broadcasting on a wide spectrum, so we can hear too.

  There’s radio silence for a long moment.

  Shreve craft, do you read?

  Still nothing.

  Do you read?

  “Maybe their radio’s out,” Col says.

  “All three of them?” I shake my head. “This isn’t even a particularly good trick. It makes no sense.”

  “But what if …”

  Col falls silent—the hovercar with the white flag is easing into motion.

  It glides slowly toward the island, headed straight for the tidal plain. Its course will carry it right between us and the Specials on the other peak.

  “Well, that makes this easy,” I say. “Those pilots are brave, I’ll give them that.”

  “Frey. We can’t just … murder them.”

  “Col, this is my father—that might be the point! If they trick us, we’re dead or captured. If we shoot them, we’ll doubt ourselves.” I look straight into his eyes. “You can’t win. There’s never a clean victory. Get used to that!”

  I turn away. Aim my weapon. The thwarted ecstasy of combat has soured into anger.

  “Frey. Look at me.”

  I don’t answer, my eye glued to my scope.

  The white flag is fluttering now in the wind of the car’s passage. It’s not just smudges—someone’s deliberately streaked the T-shirt with black.

  They’re trying to make it look improvised.

  “That first day of the war,” he says, “you didn’t let me shoot those soldiers.”

  My scope lights up—the target is within range now. But I hesitate.

  The other two cars are staying back. If I take down this one, they’ll open fire on us.

  “Col, step on the board and get away from here. I’ll handle this.” When the two remaining Shreve cars come after me, the Specials on the other peak will have a clean shot.

  And Col will be safe.

  “This is what your father would do,” he says.

  “One hit on Zura’s car and we’re stuck here, Col! What if he knows you were on this mission, and this is all a plan to capture you?”

  “Frey, he’s not all-knowing.”

  “If you’re a fool, he doesn’t have to be. So just—”

  My voice chokes off.

  The breeze has stiffened, the white flag stretching out to its full length.

  It’s a T-shirt, all right, but the black marks on it aren’t smudges. They’re symbols I’ve seen before—in the ruins.

  And words in English …

  I lower my rifle. “Give me the field glasses.”

  Col hands them over, and I raise them to my face, thumbing at the focus button.

  She’s not coming to save us.

  I drop the field glasses and tap my ear.

  “Everyone, hold your fire.”

  A sigh rushes out of Col as Zura’s voice comes back to me.

  State your reasons.

  “These aren’t Shreve hovercars. They’re rebels.”

  We stay hidden on the high ground, watching the black-and-gray hovercar land on the floodplain a hundred meters from our own.

  The belly hatch opens, and half a dozen crew spill out.

  I was right—instead of uniforms or sneak suits, they’re wearing handmade clothes. Fleece jackets, hand-knitted sweaters, shoes made from animal skin. There’s no way Shreve soldiers would go to all this trouble just to trick us.

  I hand the field glasses back to Col. “You finally got your wish. Looks like we’re joining the rebels.”

  “Or they’re joining us,” he says.

  We ping the two Specials to keep their position, then take the hoverboard down.

  Zura and Dr. Leyva are waiting on the wet sand. Most of th
e rebels look like young runaways fighting to save the earth—wiry muscles, unsurged faces, threadbare clothes.

  One of them looks familiar. From home? From Victoria?

  Then it hits me—the last time I saw them, instead of handmade forest camo they were wearing a feathered blue ball gown.

  “Yandre?” Col asks as we step from the board.

  “Chico! It’s you!”

  They embrace, and a torrent of Spanish follows. But when Yandre sees my face, their words break off.

  “What the—”

  I sigh—life will be easier once the whole world knows. But for now I have to give my little speech again.

  “I’m Rafia’s twin sister, born twenty-six minutes later. Hidden from birth. Raised as a body double. A decoy.”

  The rebels all stare at me, dumbfounded.

  “And now a ’Fox,” Yandre says with a smile, and gives Col a playful punch. “Aren’t you the charmer?”

  A woman dressed in stitched-together skins comes closer to me, inspecting my face. She’s older than the other rebels, with the green armband of a unit boss.

  The rebels don’t have ranks. Each group elects their own boss, more like pirates than a real army.

  “You were the hostage in Victoria, right?” she asks. “You got the ’Foxes to drop their guard—and then switched sides?”

  I hold her gaze. “That’s about right.”

  “Huh.” She turns to Col. “And you’re fine with that … because she’s your girlfriend now?”

  He looks a little unsteady for a moment. No one in his own forces would dare ask such a question.

  But he answers in a firm voice. “Frey saved my life. She’s fought beside us—and against her father.”

  The woman shrugs, turns to me.

  “You’re sixteen, right? Not a bad age to work out family issues.” She turns back to Col. “Well, you ’Foxes might be stuck up, but I’ve never known you to be stupid. Guess I’ll take your word she’s on our side.”

  She waves a hand, and the other two hovercars head in.

  “I’m Boss Charles, and we’re Carson’s Raiders. You ’Foxes got any food?”

  We eat lunch with the Raiders on the beach, in the cool of the ocean breeze and the shade of unfurled solar panels.

  There’s not much hunting on the island, but Col manages to take down a few birds with his bow while the rebels watch and heckle. We roast those on an open fire and empty all our survival rations to feed our new allies.

  Dr. Leyva and Zura are busy gathering information from the Raiders. The rebels have stepped up operations against my father, coming from as far away as Patagon to fight him.

  Col sits beside his old friend Yandre, as happy as I’ve seen him since the war started.

  “I should have known it was you, Chico.” Yandre’s gesture takes in the mountains, the beach, the sky. “Who else is fussy enough to run for four hours, just to find the perfect tropical island for an ambush?”

  In our laughter, all the day’s anxieties—being so close to my father’s house, fighting the Shreve army, almost firing on a white flag—unravel in my chest.

  The Palafoxes’ bash seems like a thousand years ago, but seeing Yandre again brings back the wonder of that night.

  “Since when are you a rebel?” Col asks.

  “A confession,” Yandre says. “Remember all those stories about my brother? His greenie friends? The playful acts of sabotage?”

  Col blinks. “Wait. That was really you?”

  “I’ve been a rebel since I was Teo’s age.” Yandre turns to me. “And just for the record, Frey, I only shoot at people who invade my city. I voted against attacking your convoy.”

  “Um, thanks?” I say, then shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. I was a different person, traveling under a different name.”

  “Well put.”

  “But why were you chasing us in Shreve hovercars?” Col asks. “And why the radio silence? We almost shot you!”

  Yandre chews slowly, basking in our attention for a moment before sharing the tale.

  “Three days ago, we were on patrol in the mountains. We’re a light unit—hoverboards and sniper rifles—so we don’t usually mess with armored cars. But we stumbled on these three heavy Shreve cars recharging, and it was too good to pass up.”

  Boss Charles leans into the conversation. “We got the jump on the crews, but the commander managed to run some kind of anti-capture program. The autopilots, radios, codebooks—all of it was smoking when we got inside the cars. Took us a day to get them flying again.”

  “Okay,” I say. “So you didn’t have radios. But why were you coming after us?”

  Yandre looks up at the Shreve cars looming over us.

  “We rebels don’t fight in tin cans. We can’t keep these flying for long—we don’t have the parts. But you ’Foxes have a fleet of your own. Now that you’re fighting for the planet, we figured you should have them.”

  “It was Yandre’s idea,” Boss Charles says. “I voted against it but got out-talked.”

  Yandre spreads their hands. “My insubordination is matched only by my charm.”

  “At least we got lunch,” the boss grumbles.

  I look up at the three machines. They’re heavy attack craft, with about as much firepower as the rest of Col’s fleet put together.

  But they’re also hard to maintain. And thanks to that quick-thinking Shreve officer, they’re missing most of their software.

  “Not sure we can use them either,” I say.

  “Maybe chop them up for parts?” Col suggests.

  I shake my head. “Anything my father builds is incompatible with the rest of the world. So you have to buy your parts from him.”

  “Told you, ’Dre,” Boss Charles says. “Waste of a day. I’m going swimming.”

  She stands up and walks toward the water, dropping her clothing on the sand along the way.

  Half the other rebels spring to their feet and follow her. Soon the beach is covered with handmade clothes, the water full of splashing, naked bodies.

  Yandre sighs. “At least I got to see you, Chico.”

  “It’s good to see you too,” Col says. “But I’m sure there’s something we can do with these ships. Deploy the weapons on the ground, or trade them for something we can use.”

  “Or take a page from my father’s book,” I say. “Attack Shreve with them, force them to fire on their own ships.”

  Yandre’s eyes light up at that. “Maybe during the peace conference, when he’s away.”

  Col and I both stare at them.

  Yandre sees our expressions, and smiles.

  “Ah. You mean you haven’t heard?”

  A few days later, the rebel delegation lands inside the White Mountain. They seem impressed.

  We’ve got hot showers now—melted glacier water piped along the steaming crater walls—and enough solar panels to recharge a hovercar in just a few hours.

  Instead of a tent, we hold the War Council in a real building. It’s made from trees and smells like sap and fresh-cut wood. The table is the same recycled jump deck, but someone has burned the Palafox seal into the center.

  I’m pretty sure the rebels only care about the showers.

  They’ve sent three bosses—Boss Charles and two others she’s fought beside—and Yandre. For us it’s me, Col, and Teo at the table, along with Zura, Major Sarcos, Artura Vigil, and Dr. Leyva.

  A tight group for keeping secrets.

  The first thing Col asks is “How certain are you that this peace conference is real?”

  “Our spies in the city governments all say the same thing,” Boss Charles says. “Shreve wants to make a deal. But in secret, so they don’t look like the pressure’s getting to them. The conference location is completely off the grid. A small island in the Pacific. No feeds allowed.”

  “What’s Shreve offering to get the embargo lifted?” Col asks.

  “That’s also secret.”

  “Of course,” I say. “My father do
esn’t go into negotiations without a few surprises ready. He’ll propose something unexpected, just tempting enough to divide the other cities.”

  The rebels are watching me closely, still a little perplexed by sitting at parley with their enemy’s daughter. Even Yandre gives me a double take every now and then.

  I’m starting to wonder if people will always look at me this way, once my secret’s out. Maybe pretending to be Rafi was the normal part of my life, and it’s all gawking and whispering from here on.

  “It doesn’t matter what he’s offering,” Zura says. “If we time our attack right, he’ll be out of power before the conference even starts.”

  Everyone’s eyes turn to me again, taking my measure as an impostor.

  I’m ready to convince them. I’ve dressed like Rafi today, in the exact suit she wore for my father’s birthday last year. (Or as close as our hole in the wall could come to it, at least.) Yandre did my hair and makeup earlier, and I’m sitting with Rafi’s balletic posture. Prim and upright, shoulders back.

  Imperious.

  “It’s time to bring freedom back to Shreve,” I say in her voice. “My father’s rule must end.”

  Charles gives a grumbly chuckle, like she always does when I imitate my sister.

  Boss X leans forward, his strange eyes slicing through me. He’s the most extreme of the rebels, radically surged into a cross between a wolf and a man. He gave up his “human name” when he joined them, and his voice has been surged to a low growl.

  “So you’re going to conquer him with oratory?”

  “Every revolution starts with the right words,” I say.

  Boss X looks unconvinced. “He’s going to make his own speech—threaten them to stay in line, remind them who’s in charge. We should cut him off from the feeds.”

  “We don’t have to,” I say. “If he speaks up from some island in the middle of the ocean, he’ll have to admit he snuck away to bargain for peace.”

  “And we can’t attack the conference,” Teo says. “We have allies there.”

  Boss X shrugs. “Your allies, not ours.”

  “We don’t want to start a larger war,” Col says. “We want to end this one.”

  “But the people in Shreve have breathed dust for ten years,” Boss Charles says. “They’ve got no weapons. How do they overthrow an army?”