Impostors Page 6

  “Why not just spray?”

  “We’re old-fashioned here. When my little brother’s home from school, he goes out every morning to collect eggs.”

  “To eat? From birds that eat bugs?” I shake my head. “This whole city’s like something from the Rusty era, or whatever was before that!”

  “The pre-Rusties,” Col says, laughing.

  “Whatever,” I say. “But it’s beautiful.”

  His laughter fades, and he gives me a curious look.

  “Really, Rafia? Shreve’s so much bigger and newer than Victoria, I thought you’d be bored. Might you actually be charmed by our little town?”

  I don’t answer right away. The real Rafi would be bored. Or at least she’d pretend to be, because older, smaller cities are passé compared to the bold new constructions of the mind-rain. But I don’t want to offend Col. He’s my ally now.

  And after a lifetime of hiding, training, and carefully scripted appearances, it’s hard not to be entranced by all this street life swirling around me. All these smells and sounds are overwhelming. As is the fact that I could choose any street to walk down next.

  But the most confusing part isn’t my own freedom—it’s everyone else’s. Victoria seems like a city entirely out of control.

  “I’m not bored at all, Col. If anything, it’s too much, walking around in the open like this. It feels … precarious.”

  He studies me. “More precarious than having assassins shoot at you?”

  “I have bodyguards in Shreve. Here, there’s just a few wardens. You don’t even have spy dust!”

  “It’s illegal.”

  “I know, but …” My tutors explained how privacy is an obsession in Victoria. The city scrubs its data every day, forgetting where everyone went, what they pinged each other, what they made with their holes in the wall.

  Back home in Shreve, the air is full of machines. When you shine a flashlight in the dark, most of those floating specks are spy dust, nanocameras taking a hundred pictures a second in all directions, along with the tiny microphones, transmitters, batteries, and repeaters that support them.

  If the wardens in Shreve want to know what happened at a certain place and time, they just call it up on the city interface. They can watch from any angle, replay any sound but the softest whisper—unless Dona’s people have censored it to hide my father’s secrets, of course. Like me.

  “It just feels unsafe, Col. What if there’s a murder? How do you solve any crimes?”

  “Crimes got solved before dust was invented, you know. We use DNA, fingerprints, eyewitnesses.” He shrugs. “And, I don’t know, logic?”

  “Sounds like a lot of trouble, when you could just watch what happened.”

  “People don’t like being spied on. Besides, we haven’t had an unsolved murder since the mind-rain.”

  I lower my voice a little. “But how does your family keep control?”

  He looks at me through narrowed eyes.

  “We don’t keep control. We lead.”

  “Are you being smug?”

  “Usually.” He watches a dog run past, chasing a pair of cats. “My mother does a good job. So people don’t try to get rid of us.”

  I come to a halt and stare at him. “Are you saying someone tried to kill me because my father was doing a bad job?”

  “Your father’s different,” he answers calmly. “You know that.”

  I stand there in the cool shade of an adobe wall, gathering my thoughts. I don’t have an answer, because I don’t really know why I’m arguing. Is this me pretending to be Rafi, who always upholds the family name in public? Or do I just hate being judged?

  “I’m sorry you can’t walk around like this at home,” Col says. “The violence must be tough.”

  There’s that smugness again.

  “Don’t talk to me about violence,” I say. “You mother’s borrowing my father’s army.”

  “Borrowing, because we don’t have a big standing army of our own. Half our soldiers have other jobs. Don’t you see the difference?”

  “Not really.”

  He sighs. “Il n’est pire sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre.”

  No one’s as deaf as one who doesn’t want to listen, my cyrano translates.

  French proverbs? Perfect. Rafi would be so much better at this than me. She could probably spit some fancy saying back at him.

  I try to remember what my tutors have been teaching me about the debates of the new era. About whether the first families, with their all-knowing dust and ancient weapons, have grown too powerful.

  But why would anyone want to be ruled by a family that was weak?

  I notice that the wardens have formed a loose circle around me and Col, facing outward, standing with their arms crossed. The crowd is giving us a wide berth while we argue.

  I remember Rafi saying that the Palafoxes aren’t soft. Their power is in the air around us. Gentle but firm.

  They just don’t like to admit it.

  “Maybe you don’t know everything about your own family,” I say.

  Col considers this a moment, then nods.

  “You’re right. I never thought Jefa would let Shreve’s forces in. Or cut me out of the decision. Or try to marry me off like some bubblehead.” His voice goes quieter. “And I still can’t figure out why she locked up my hunting bow.”

  I don’t bother to explain. Allies or not, Col doesn’t need to know that I’m a hostage. All he really wants is his hunting bow, if only to push back against Aribella for treating him like breeding stock.

  Maybe I can use this.

  “Here’s a question.” I step a little closer, whispering, “How often does anyone go down to the monastery?”

  “Hardly ever. Even cleaning drones aren’t allowed—Jefa says they wear away the stone.”

  “Then maybe I can get your hunting bow back, if you find something for me.”

  His eyes widen. “What?”

  “You can’t tell your mother what I’m about to ask for. Promise?”

  “Of course.”

  I wonder whether to trust him. Back home, my father’s office is full of sensors that track heartbeat, skin temperature, the subtle motions of the eyes—every telltale that someone might be lying.

  But out here on the street, all I have to go on is Col’s unwavering gaze back at me.

  Somehow it’s enough.

  “Do you know what a pulse charger looks like?”

  A week later, the Palafoxes throw a welcome bash for me.

  The newsfeeds are ablaze with it. Every high-face-rank family in Victoria is invited. Everyone wants to meet the plucky girl who survived an assassination and a rebel attack. Every kicker with a feed is speculating on how long I’ll stay in the city. On how I’m getting along with my hosts. On whether our families’ alliance has been strengthened by this shared war against the rebels.

  People speculate about me and Col too.

  Our intense conversation on the street was caught by a few private cams, but the gossip varies depending on the source. Were we arguing? Flirting? Performing for the cameras?

  The whole city is starting to wonder if my visit here is more than a vacation.

  It’s the afternoon of the ball, and I’m still trying on virtual outfits in my bedroom wallscreen.

  I’ve tried the hole in the wall’s standard designs, but they’re too basic for Rafi to wear. My fingers flex and twitch, picking from endless menus of styles and options. Customize, refine, specify in a hundred ways—but I’m just guessing.

  Every attempt winds up with another disaster.

  What if Grandma Zefina, curious about what I’m wearing tonight, is watching? She must wonder why the always stylish Rafi is suddenly so lost.

  This is what I get for wanting to leave home, to be my own person. I’m finally getting to have my own party, and it’s a nightmare.

  Rafi was right—I don’t know how to dress, or flirt, or make conversation. Which is fine for a few stilted dinner parties.
But now the whole world is going to see how fashion-missing I am. How everything-missing.

  Like I’m only half a person.

  My sister’s cyrano isn’t helping. It’s full of protocol tips, not fashion advice—something Rafi would never need.

  I’d give anything for her help right now. But the Palafoxes might find it strange if I called home to ask myself for fashion advice.

  But then, as I’m staring at my fifteenth absolute wreck of an outfit, the cyrano hisses softly in my ear—

  A secret ping from home. The first since I’ve arrived.

  The cyrano can’t send signals out or House Palafox security will catch them. But it can scan the public newsfeeds for incoming hidden messages. They’re encrypted in images of my father, official vids of him waving to a crowd or signing a document. Strewn across those billions of pixels are tiny, random-seeming shifts of color, information buried in a hundred devious layers of math for my cyrano to decode.

  I don’t react at first, in case anyone’s watching. Instead, I discard my latest design with a disgusted Rafi sigh, flop on my bed, and stare at the ceiling. Only then do I reach up and tap the cyrano to play the message.

  It’s a recording of my sister’s voice.

  Frey! Hope you’re okay, or at least muddling along.

  But mostly, I hope you’re listening to this right away. You have to nail this party tonight. Have you seen our face rank lately? Since the rebel attack, we’re top hundred. And I don’t mean locally—that’s our global rank, Frey.

  People from all over are going to be watching this bash.

  You better look amazing.

  I wish I could interrupt Rafi and tell her this isn’t helping. My nerves are bad enough without imagining a worldwide audience. All those people watching me and Col, ready to gossip …

  Then it hits me—Rafi said our face rank. That’s new. It was always her fame, not mine. But the rebels were shooting at me, I guess, so it’s only fair to get some credit.

  It’s lucky you’ve got a very clever big sister.

  Pause this until you’re in front of a wallscreen. Then do exactly as I say.

  I jump up from the bed, stand in front of the screen. Ready to obey.

  Okay, call up the Seft. Do you even know what that is? Standard European Fashion Timeline, duh. You call it by making two fists, thumbs on the inside. Like you’re about to punch someone, I guess.

  Except you’d break a thumb if you hit someone that way.

  Now scroll to the mid-2040s, the A-frame dresses. Not that you know what that means, but I assume you know what the letter A looks like? Hah.

  See that one near the middle, with the lace collar? Select it and open Options. Not the littlie menu with four choices—put on your big girl pants and use the advanced list.

  Yeah, I know. There’s, like, a hundred submenus. And this is only the beginning.

  But never fear, big sister’s here …

  I follow along, barely keeping up with her narration. She’s racing, guiding me through the bottomless specificities of fashion. The whole time I can imagine her talking to herself in our bedroom, in front of the wallscreen we’ve shared since we were littlies. It feels like I’m there beside her, back at home.

  But as Rafi whispers in my ear, weaving this dress for my body—for our body—it starts to feel like these are my own thoughts flowing through my head. My skills navigating the centuries of styles and trends, the measure of my hips, arms, shoulders.

  Anyone snooping must think my lost fashion genius has come rushing back, full force.

  When Rafi’s recording finally ends, the wallscreen shows me wrapped in spiral coils of gunmetal lace, the dress beneath in subtle gradients of reflective black. Gray gloves up to my elbows, dark tulle with an iridescent oil-slick sheen peeking out from beneath my hem.

  The hole in the wall says fabrication will take three hours. I didn’t know anything took that long for a nano-forge to make. I’ll barely have time to dress before the bash.

  And already I’m impatient. I usually don’t care what Rafi and I wear. But having watched this creation emerge from a thousand swift, skillful choices, I’m eager to become that girl in the dress.

  No, not a dress. A ball gown.

  A ping sounds in the room.

  “Rafia?” It’s Aribella Palafox, my host—my captor. The timing is so perfect, she must’ve been watching. “If you’re free, perhaps we could chat about tonight.”

  “That would be lovely.” I slip the cyrano off. Aribella runs a whole city from her office—it’ll be packed with sensors.

  And suddenly I’m Frey again, not the princess in the beautiful dress. Frey, who doesn’t know what to wear, what fork to use. Or how to chat with her host about a party that will be watched across the world.

  “Would now be convenient?” she asks.

  I nod, not trusting the steadiness of my voice.

  Greeting me at her office door, Aribella takes my hands in hers.

  “Let me look at you, Rafia.”

  She steps back, studying me. Is she imagining the ball gown, making sure I’ll be elegant enough for her bash tonight? Or is she wondering if I seem somehow different in real life?

  Rafi’s voice has been in my ear all afternoon, so her stance, her cool expression, come naturally. But Aribella’s scrutiny is still nervous-making. I look past her to the tall windows of the office, which are full of light and motion. House Palafox doesn’t lurk on the edge of the wild like my father’s tower; it sits in the center of town, Aribella’s office looking out across the city she rules.

  Victoria is all open terraces and hoverstruts, a fairy kingdom compared to squat, stolid Shreve. A pre-Rusty cathedral rises in the distance, its stone spire dappled with sunlight reflected from floating glass buildings. Drones flit past the windows, their cargos bright with flowers and fruit, scattering the ever-present pigeons before them.

  Like the town, Aribella’s office is full of color. There’s no desk, no dominating wallscreen. Just the circle of red velvet couches that she guides me to.

  We sit close, our knees almost touching.

  “I must confess,” she says. “I took a peek at your gown for tonight, and it’s perfect. I’ll make sure Col wears something to match.”

  With all the newsfeed buzz about me and him, Aribella wants to play up the rumors. To show the city that her family can secure an alliance with my father.

  “Col’s been very kind to me,” I say.

  “Of course, he has—you’re so lovely, Rafia.” She leans closer, looking me over again. “And no surgery at all?”

  For a moment, I don’t know how to answer. Back in the pretty regime, looks weren’t something to brag about. But now every city has its own customs.

  “My nose could be smaller,” I say—Rafi’s complaint since she was a littlie. “But Father won’t let me change it.”

  Aribella gives me a sympathetic smile. “He’s always talking about your mother, the natural pretty. Maybe he wants to see her in your face.”

  “I don’t remember her.”

  “Of course not.” She reaches up to smooth my hair. Her touch is unexpectedly gentle. “Everyone knows the story—your father taking what he wants.”

  I’m not sure what to say to that. If our father didn’t take what he wanted, Rafi and I wouldn’t exist.

  When my brother, Seanan, was abducted, my mother resisted the kidnappers. She was shot four times, and as she lay dying on the operating table, Father told the doctors to harvest her eggs so he could have more children with her.

  My father makes his own reality. Sometimes with force. Sometimes with technology.

  He snatched me and Rafi from oblivion.

  I repeat what Dona Oliver always says: “He loved my mother too much to let her go.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on.” Aribella turns to face the windows. “I’m gambling my city’s safety that he’d never endanger his own blood.”

  A tremble of relief travels through me—at l
ast, we aren’t pretending anymore. I’m a captive here, not a guest. Collateral for my father’s good behavior.

  Aribella misinterprets my shiver. “You must think I’m dreadful, taking a child hostage.”

  “You didn’t take me.” I sit a little straighter. “I came of my own free will.”

  “Well, that’s a relief, Rafia. I was worried your father wouldn’t tell you, which might have left us with … an awkward conversation.”

  I almost laugh at that. “He’s not afraid of delivering bad news.”

  “Your father does enjoy a crisis. But he’s been as good as his word on this deal. So far.”

  “Of course.” The feeds are saying that the rebels are faltering already. Retreating under the combined forces of Victoria and Shreve. “My family doesn’t shy away from a fight.”

  “No, you don’t.” Aribella looks at the scar above my eye. “In fact, I heard a rumor, from someone who was there that day, when that awful man tried to kill you.”

  My body goes tense. Dona’s security people scrutinized every angle of spy-dust data, hunting for anyone who might have seen me and Rafi together. But with all the smoke and confusion, they were never certain.

  I shrug. “There are a lot of rumors about that day.”

  “I never believed this one, until I met you.” Aribella leans closer. “Did you kill the assassin?”

  Rafi would deny it, or simply laugh it away. But with my other, bigger secret always lurking, I want to admit this truth. And maybe impressing Aribella matters to me now.

  “Yes. I killed him.”

  I’m not sure what to expect, but her warm smile surprises me.

  “Thank you for trusting me, Rafia.” She gently takes my right wrist. “Is your hand better?”

  I stare at her. “My hand?”

  “We were worried that there might be something hidden under your skin.” Aribella looks away, a little embarrassed. “A tracker, perhaps. It seemed prudent to scan you.”

  “Right.” My father’s security uses millimeter-wave radar to make sure his guests aren’t carrying weapons. “But I don’t have any implants, except for my eyes.”

  “No. But we noticed that the bones in your right hand were recently broken.”