31

100 PERCENT

READINGS ARE 99% COMPLETE. REMEMBER EMPRA MCCARTHY.

Eliot sat on the covered toilet seat, head in her hands. The right one screamed through the Heal-All’s numbing agents, palm shaking because her world’s end had come too close. This was the second time she’d faced the Fade in the flesh, and Eliot’s edges felt less solid for it—warped fingernails, caving chest. No clever foreign curse word or dance party could pull her back together after such a sight.

“One more percent.” Even her whisper felt cobwebby, syllables ready to snap. “All you have to do is make it to one hundred. Then you’ll be certain.”

But what if this boy wasn’t the one? Could she move on to Subject Eight? Nine? Ten? Twenty? Could she keep drawing on eyebrows with her All My Friends Are Dead Again pen while the lifetimes piled over her groaning bones?

Blank slate? Ha. If anything she was overwritten. There shouldn’t be room for any more of these traumas, but Eliot’s interface accepted the upload of the Alexandria mission nonetheless. SUBJECT SEVEN, DECEMBER 16, 48 BC. The label’s letters looked too neat for such a nasty business.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY THE FILE? Vera asked.

Eliot didn’t want to watch the footage again, but it was necessary. She’d already forgotten most of her flight from the Fade, as Far certainly had, as the others certainly would. Only the Grid was preserving those final, fatal seconds, and once the Invictus landed back in time—any time—the Fade would feast on that memory, too. If Eliot didn’t relive Empra McCarthy’s unmaking again, she’d forget it. Though, in truth, forgetting would be easier. It was tempting to highlight the lifetimes of footage in her drive and hit Delete—Agent Ackerman’s orders be fexed. She’d remember the ones she’d already watched, sure, but once the Fade caught up to her, none of it would matter.

Nothing would.

Eliot started to sob: water, water everywhere. Vera kept repeating the question in her most polite text-speak, the act of crying beyond the interface program’s comprehension. Eliot had tried to operate like that—bionic, aloof, apart—but she was too hazing human for her own good.

The mirror caught Eliot when she looked up. Through the tears, at this distance, everything was warped, the washroom engulfing her blotchy face. How could Agent Ackerman expect her to shape the fates of billions when she couldn’t even fill in her own reflection? Eliot’s eyebrows anchored her in the smallness, their message untouched by weeping. She couldn’t not hear her mother’s voice when she read it. Make a wish. Make it count.

“I’m trying,” Eliot croaked.

READINGS ARE 100% COMPLETE. REMEMBER EMPRA MCCARTHY. Vera’s question changed. WOULD YOU LIKE THE RESULTS OF THE SCAN FOR COUNTERSIGNATURE EMISSIONS?

Up, up her hope soared, and Eliot hated how high it felt because it meant the crash would be that much worse, and she was only human, after all, only a girl trying her best to save the world, and her mission rode on whatever came next.

“Hit me, Vera.”

I AM A COMPUTER. I DO NOT POSSESS PHYSICAL ARMS TO PERFORM SUCH A TASK.

“It’s a blackja—never mind. Show me the results. Please.”

THE FADE’S CATALYST IS CONFIRMED. SUBJECT SEVEN IS A COMPLETE COUNTERSIGNATURE MATCH.

Subject Seven. Out of all the candidates in all the universes this boy was the one. Solara—and the other cousins—would’ve called it lucky, for the number, but Eliot didn’t believe in luck. The best way to wrangle fate was to seize it by the fexing throat.

She knew what was coming next. She’d spent seven lives bracing for it.

NEUTRALIZATION ORDER CONFIRMED.

Eliot reached into the pocket universe wrapped around her wrist, feeling through gowns and wigs and tools for the item she needed. There! A steel so cold her fingers solidified around it. She hated to do this, especially in front of Imogen.

She had to.

Eliot turned toward the washroom door and pulled out her gun.