4

ALORA

FEBRUARY 10, 2147

“Did you hear that?” I ask, my head snapping to the left, where Lieutenant Rivera is standing. She barely nods. For once, she’s speechless. I don’t blame her; I can’t believe what I’m witnessing myself.

After Chancellor Tyson was informed about the deteriorating situation outside, he ordered the Academy to lock down. Now we’re waiting in the lobby of the Academy’s main building, along with dozens of other people—including a team of cadets that just returned from a time trip—watching the protest taking place through the outer glass wall. Nobody is talking or moving because it sounds like a gun was just fired outside.

The scene in front of me looks like something out of the many Sims I’ve experienced over the past several months, while learning about the recent history of the North American Federation. Protestors screaming, some openly attacking the soldiers assigned to keep the peace. And in return, a few soldiers have started tossing canisters into the crowd. Soon a thick fog encases everyone, making it more difficult to see them and forcing them to flee the noxious fumes. The soldiers, all wearing masks, move through the crowd to arrest anyone not dispersing.

I feel like I could puke. This shouldn’t be happening. Not in the present. I worry about protestors somehow getting in here, or a stray bullet piercing the glass, but I remember how Lieutenant Rivera said on my tour earlier that the glass in all DTA buildings is bulletproof. Nothing can destroy it, short of an explosion.

Someone touches my right shoulder. I recoil from the contact and pivot around to find a dark-haired woman in an emerald green and khaki uniform standing behind me. It’s my mother. I’m so shocked that I can’t speak.

Mom inhales sharply and says in a wavering voice, “Oh sweet heavens, you’re safe. I thought you had been caught up in one of the protests somewhere.” She folds me into a warm hug that envelops me with a familiar scent—lavender.

I want to feel safe in her arms, want to pretend I’m a little girl again and she can make everything better. But that’s just a fairy tale for me. I pull away from her, a frown tugging my lips down. “Where have you been? I arrived hours ago.”

A sour look crosses Mom’s face. “I’ve been here for several hours already. I took off work early because I knew you were arriving today. The chancellor let me wait in a private waiting room, so I could be more comfortable until you arrived. I had no idea you were already here.”

I whirl around to face Lieutenant Rivera. “Did you know my mom was being kept waiting?”

She shakes her head, eyes wide. “I promise, I didn’t know. I apologize, Ms. Mason.”

“Well, at least I’m with my daughter now,” Mom replies, putting an arm around me again.

“When do you think we’ll be able to leave?” I ask Lieutenant Rivera.

Glancing back to the protestors in front of the building, the lieutenant slowly shakes her head. “I don’t know. Probably not anytime soon.” Her eyes flick momentarily to me. “I can’t believe how quickly things have spiraled of control. It was just a few hours ago that I heard that the RCA had been approved—and now this.”

“I can believe it,” Mom says. “Humanity will always make the same mistakes. You would think that being able to travel to the past and learn from it would cure of us of that, but it hasn’t.”

“Oh, absolutely. Purists haven’t learned anything,” Rivera says. She continues to rant about how they’re going to destroy the country again if the government doesn’t do something about them. I want to ask what the RCA is, and why it’s ignited so much anger among the Purists in such a short time, but I can’t get a word in. That’s so typical of her. When she thinks she’s right, there is no shutting her up.

I take a few steps away from Mom and Rivera, activate my DataLink, and search for information about the RCA, promptly finding out more than I want to know. Because of the RCA, Purists will now have to pay higher taxes, have higher medical costs, and be charged more for goods and services. All because they’re now considered a “drain on society.” Wow, talk about discrimination. Honestly, I really don’t blame the Purists for being so pissed.

It takes the sound of shouting behind us to silence Lieutenant Rivera. I whirl around. On the other side of the lobby, several people are kneeling, staring down at someone sprawled out on the floor. I stand on my tiptoes to get a better view. And since I’m cursed with being so short, I can’t see what’s going on. My first thought is that someone was injured outside—maybe even shot.

“I’ll find out what’s going on,” the lieutenant says before she slips through the crowd in direction of the injured person. I watch her and try to tune out the anxious chatter that’s now sweeping the area.

Mom, still close to me, wraps her fingers around my right hand and squeezes gently. “It’ll be okay. I’m sure it’s nothing major. Lots of people panic when there’s a stressful situation.”

While I’m happy to be with Mom, what I really want right now is to be alone. That’s always been my default when I’m under stress. I can remember running through a densely packed forest in my old life, and how it made me feel less tense. I wonder where I can go here to get the same sense of freedom. The temptation to shift somewhere private is overwhelming, but I force myself to forget about it. At least Chancellor Tyson forgot to shackle me with an Inhibitor once the receptionist told him about the escalating tensions outside.

A few minutes later, Lieutenant Rivera returns, appearing a bit more animated that she was before. “Turns out it’s nothing. One of the cadets couldn’t handle all the excitement and had a panic attack. His professor administered a large dose of Calmer.”

“Calmer shouldn’t make someone completely pass out,” Mom replies, frowning.

And I want to add that there’s nothing exciting about all of this. Nothing at all.

“Maybe so, but under the circumstances I’d rather have him unconscious than creating havoc in here. Wouldn’t you agree?” she asks.

“I suppose so,” Mom says with a heavy sigh.

Mom and Rivera might think that’s okay, but I don’t. That could have easily been me, a few months ago. I had my fair share of Calmer forced on me when I was first rescued, and I didn’t like it. Even now, I have to take it occasionally. Thankfully that doesn’t happen often. Though I wonder if a dose would help me right now. Maybe going zombie for a little while would make all of this a little more bearable.

A doc from the med facilities upstairs arrives. She directs two medics to pick up the cadet and place him on a stretcher. They begin pushing their way through the crowd, heading to the elevators next to us.

When they reach us, I get a good look at the boy and get a weird, fluttery sensation in my stomach, almost like déjà vu. I’ve never seen him before, but I feel like I should know him. He has dark brown hair and his skin is almost as pale as mine. I wonder what color his eyes are and suddenly think brown. They’re brown.

“Mom, do you know him?” I ask after the medics step into the nearest elevator and the door slides shut.

“No,” she says in a tight voice. “I’ve never seen him before.”

Two hours later, Mom and I finally board one of the last shuttles scheduled to transport people from the Academy to New Denver. I search the small interior and spot two empty seats near the back. It’s filled with both adults and cadets. One of them, a girl with curly black hair and brown skin, stares at me in surprise. I quickly look away and focus on getting to my seat.

Chancellor Tyson wouldn’t let any cadets leave without one of their parents or guardians to accompany them. A lot of cadets were furious that they had to wait at the Academy until someone came for them.

Once the protestors had been cleared out, Chancellor Tyson ended the lockdown. I was thrilled to finally get away from Lieutenant Rivera, but I admit that leaving the safety of the main building was terrifying. As I headed to my quarters to retrieve my portacase and coat, I kept thinking, what if some protestors were hiding in the shadows, waiting to ambush us? Which was ridiculous because the soldiers had searched the campus before we were allowed to leave.

Once we’re finally seated and the shuttle is in the air, I look around again. Everyone on the shuttle is subdued, even Mom. She’s scrolling through the news feed on her DataLink, like most everyone else around us. Suddenly she frowns.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“The governor just announced a statewide curfew. We have to be home by eleven o’clock.” She pauses and pats my hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just can’t believe this is happening.”

“Me either, sweetheart. Me either.”

I check the time on my DataLink. It’s a little after nine-thirty right now. Mom told me earlier that the ride to New Denver only takes fifteen minutes and her apartment is a few blocks from the terminal, so we should have more than enough time to get there. Still, I can’t shake the discomfort clinging to me. I’ve never experienced anything like this—the violent protests, the curfew. This whole situation is so messed up. Coming to the Academy was supposed to be my first step toward freedom. And yet, a tiny part of me wishes I could go back to my life in Chicago. It was boring and suffocating, but at least it was safe.

I know that’s ridiculous. There were protests in Chicago today, too.

A soft chime sounds, then the pilot begins speaking through the intercom. “Attention passengers, we will arrive at the terminal in five minutes. I’ve been instructed to inform you that upon arrival in New Denver, everyone will be searched by law enforcement officials. No exceptions.”

“What? That’s ridiculous!” someone in front of me shouts. My stomach clenches. Why would they do that? Surely they realize that everyone on board is coming in from the Academy. What would we have to hide?

The shuttle begins its descent. I glance out my window and catch a glimpse of New Denver. I wish I could have seen it for the first time in daylight, but the nighttime view is still pretty spectacular. The skyline sparkles as if inlaid with neon jewels. It looks so welcoming.

Upon landing, everyone is ushered off the shuttle and directed to the white, two-story terminal building. This terminal is supposed to look pleasant and welcoming—it has chocolate-brown carpet, large digigraphs of exotic places dotting the walls, and potted plants located throughout the lobby. But it’s anything but inviting. Police in two-piece, steel-blue uniforms and black helmets, all carrying stunners, are stationed throughout the building. Attendants lead us to three long lines set up to our left.

Before we get in line, the dark-haired girl from shuttle catches up to me and Mom. A distressed-looking woman in a navy-blue uniform follows close behind her. “Excuse me,” the girl says. “Are you Alora Mason?”

“Yes,” I answer in a cautious voice. “Why do you want to know?”

The girl’s face lights up in a warm grin. “I’m Tara Martinez. I’m your new roommate at the Academy. We were supposed to be introduced this afternoon, but then everything went to hell.”

Despite the tense atmosphere here, I find myself laughing. “That’s the truth.” We introduce our parents, then I ask, “How did you know who I am?”

Tara’s mouth parts as if she wants to say one thing, but changes her mind. “I was given your profile when I was reassigned to room with you, so I already knew what you looked like. We also have … certain things in common.”

Tara’s mother gives her a sharp look. “That’s enough for now, Tara.” She shakes my hand and then Mom’s, saying, “It was so nice meeting the two of you. I wish it were under better circumstances. But we have to report to line one now.”

Before they depart, Tara says she’ll be in touch soon and promises to show me around campus. A part of me is thrilled. I might actually make friends. But a part of me is skeptical. What if she’s working with the DTA to spy on me? That wouldn’t surprise me at all.

Mom and I join our assigned line, and nearly an hour passes before we’re finally searched. I break out in a sweat as I step into the body scanner, then turn over my portacase so an officer can look through it. He tosses all my belongings on a table, scans everything with a gray handheld device, then carelessly shoves everything back inside. For some reason, that really pisses me off. I don’t have anything to hide, and I haven’t done anything wrong. I shouldn’t have to be subjected to this kind of treatment.

“It’s ten-thirty. We need to hurry,” Mom says when we finally leave the terminal. We set out at a brisk pace and try to ignore the military Space Benders and police that are on patrol. It’s unnerving seeing so many. After walking only one block, I count five of them.

The closer we get to Mom’s apartment, the more I find myself scowling at everything. This is my first time going home with her. My first visit to New Denver. I wish I could enjoy the scenery. Some of the Jumbotrons on the tall buildings are flashing reminders of the curfew, while others broadcast scenes from various protests that took place today, especially the ones that turned violent. We keep seeing reports of an officer in Seattle who shot and killed a Purist who was acting suspicions. Apparently, the Purist was wearing a device that allowed explosives in his portacase to detonate if his heart stopped beating. After the officers shot him, the case exploded and severely injured four bystanders. That terrifies me. Why would anyone want to use a weapon like that, much less one that could still inflict damage even after their own death? That’s horrifying. They’d have no way of knowing whether or not innocent people might be harmed. Do they honestly think that will make the government officials change their minds?

Mom and I are both breathing hard by the time we reach her fifth-floor apartment, just ten minutes before curfew. We had to speed-walk to make it on time. She pauses in front of the retinal scanner, then enters the room once the door slides open. I stop in the doorway and stare, all thoughts of the protests fading away for the moment.

I’m finally home.

Mom looks back at me, worry etched into her features. She swallows, looking down for a second, then forces a smile. “Do you remember living here?”

I nod slowly and step inside, taking in everything. There are some differences, like the furniture and walls. The walls used to be a buttery yellow, but now they’re light blue. The floors are still covered with tan-and-white tile. Feeling like I’m in a dream, I walk over to a black table next to the couch and pick up a small digigraph. It shows me when I was little, laughing and hugging my father in one of the city’s Green Zones. I run one of my fingers along the side of the frame. We look so much alike. Same blond hair, same blue eyes, same smile.

I set down the digigraph, overwhelmed with sadness. This is the father I can remember: the one who loved me and tried to spend time with me, not the one who kidnapped me. It doesn’t make sense.

“Do you want me to get anything for you? Something to eat or drink?” Mom asks, gesturing toward a doorway leading to what I remember being a very tiny kitchen. I haven’t had anything since lunch, but I’m not hungry.

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you sure? I can make a sandwich, or something else if you like. It’s no trouble.”

“I’m sure,” I say, looking down the short hallway to my right, which leads to my old bedroom. I get a flash of memory: standing there when I was six, the very night that Dad kidnapped me. I remember all the shouting. I remember being terrified.

Fixating back on the digigraph, I try and fail to make thoughts of Dad disappear. “What was he really like?” I ask in a voice that sounds hollow, even to me. “The truth, not the same stuff I heard back in Chicago.”

Mom seems so weary as she crosses over to the couch and sits. She starts to talk, then hesitates as if she’s trying to find the right words. “He loved you with every ounce of his being. And I loved him, at one point. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, but then …” she trails off, tears filling her eyes.

I take the seat next to her and place my hands on hers. “It’s okay, we can talk about it another time.” I let out a mirthless laugh. “I mean, the world is going insane tonight. That’s more important than rehashing painful memories.”

Mom’s lips draw into a thin line, then she says, “There’s always something bad happening in the world, sweetheart.” She clasps her hands together, curling her fingers together several times before she speaks again. “The life that I wanted to build with your father may not have happened, but he gave me my greatest joy, and that’s you, even though that joy was gone all those years you were away. I hated him for that. But then I learned that he was a clone, and they’re too unstable.”

She doesn’t have to say more about that. Part of my lessons involved going back to witness firsthand how, at the turn of this century, newly minted clones slowly descended into madness. It makes me wonder why the government felt the need to clone my father in the first place. Sure, he was the first known Time and Space Bender, which led to me, but they took a huge risk bringing him back, knowing that he would ultimately self-destruct.

“What happened to him? Did you ever find out why he took me and then dumped me in Georgia, of all places?”

Mom stiffens, her eyes shifting away from me. In a careful voice, she says, “I guess he thought he was trying to save you. The DTA was trying to take you away. But in the end, he lost himself. I was told that he was killed, but I don’t know for sure. I just hope that wherever he is now, he’s finally at peace.”

“Yeah, I guess I feel the same way,” I reply, hating how shaky my voice sounds. Deep down, I feel cheated. I wanted my father’s actions to mean something, but it sounds like his good intentions were outweighed by his insanity.

Mom stands, drawing me up with her. “I know you’ve had a rough day, so I won’t keep you up. But if you need anything at all, don’t be afraid to ask. Even if it’s in the middle of the night, I’m here for you.”

She hugs me tight. I freeze at first, then wrap my arms around her, inhaling the lavender scent that clings to her. I remember this. It reminds me of home. For the first time today, I feel truly safe. I just wish I had been allowed to come here before now. I wish she had pushed harder for that right.

But instead of voicing those not-so-nice thoughts, I whisper, “Thank you.”

Pulling back, she blinks rapidly. “I’ll let you get some sleep now. Do you remember where your bedroom is?” I nod, and she continues, “Okay. Everything is exactly the way you left it. If you want, we can redecorate.”

She wasn’t kidding, I think when I step into my bedroom. It’s like stepping directly into my past. The walls are the bright blue I loved as a child. The bed is covered with a blue-and-white flowered quilt, with several throw pillows on it. An antique white chest stands at the foot of the bed.

I take off my coat and toss it and my portacase on the bed, then walk over to a white dresser on the opposite side of the bed and open the drawers. The upper ones are full of too-small clothes that I can’t remember wearing, but the bottom two are filled with different items. I find a large, deep-blue notebook with stars painted on the front and flip through it. Even as a child, I loved drawing. I glance back at my portacase, where my current sketchbook and drawing supplies are stored.

Near the back of one drawer, I find a polished wooden box. I open it, and it begins to play a haunting melody. The box holds several pieces of jewelry, all lying on a bed of midnight-blue velvet. I pick up a shiny silver bracelet with an infinity symbol pendant. My dad gave it to me on my fifth birthday. I remember him telling me that the symbol represented his love for me. I bite my lip and set it back down. How am I supposed to feel about him? He’s been painted as such a monster, but that’s not the man I remember.

I almost set the box back in the drawer, but a folded piece of paper catches my eye. I pick it up, noticing that it’s lying on top of a small, black, circular object. My eyes widen. It’s a Mind Redeemer, an object that I know the DTA uses to erase memories.

It’s also used to restore memories.

I wonder what it’s doing in my room. Who put it in here?

My first thought is that I should go and get Mom. I can’t have this in my possession. Only DTA officials are allowed to hold or use them. Then I remember the paper, which appears to be torn from my old notebook. I unfold it, then my hand begins trembling. A short message is scrawled on the page, in my handwriting, along with instructions on how to operate the Mind Redeemer:

If you can’t remember Aunt Grace or Bridger, then use this to restore your memories!