“Is there smoke?” Penny asked early the next morning.
There was heat under me, warming the bottoms of my shoes. I felt it waft through my uncomfortably starched clothing, dampening my back. Sulfur in the air too, reminiscent of the lab, but outside it was different. Uncontained.
Penny stared northwest, past the metal power plant fueling the lab, past the island itself. Orange skies met green ocean. East Asia was somewhere beyond that murky darkness. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It was a warm day in April, and all three of us had our beige trench coats unbuttoned.
Around us, ravens cawed softly. Uphillers in long trench coats trekked from point A to point B, their faces glued to their phone screens. We were heading to the lab for a few more tests, but Penny had stopped suddenly, her expression troubled.
“Mount Amaris has been dormant for decades,” Father said dismissively. “The city isn’t very close to the Ring of Fire either. The buildings are reinforced. Structurally sound.”
My geography modules told me that the Ring of Fire formed a ring around much of the Pacific Ocean—from Asia, to Europe, to the Americas, and beyond. Basically, it was the region where volcanoes had been most active on earth. Decades ago, a volcanic eruption formed the archipelago around us, including the well-populated island of Amaris City.
A new thought occurred to me: there had been no warning before the eruption occurred, and there was no definitive way to know exactly when one might happen in the future. The only thing we could go off were signs. Hints like the smell in the air changing.
Which I swore, it had.
My Cog whirred. My eyes widened. I knew where Penny was going with this, because I had just formed the very same thought myself: “So, is living here dangerous?”
“No.” Father dismissed it with a shake of his head. “It’s statistically very safe.”
Yet a series of downloaded images flashed through my Cog: an eruption of fire; ash falling through the sky; people screaming, screaming, screaming.
It could happen again, even to the best of the best. I watched beads of sweat trickle down the side of Father’s neck. He tugged at his tie for a moment before we made eye contact. In the manicured green grass, there was a red-eyed frog with boils peppering its acid-green skin and I wondered, Is this another sign?
A beige-clad group heading in our direction stopped to wave at Father before I could voice any of my observations. All of them carried enormous cups of coffee and brimmed with jittery, almost puppy-like energy. They were young, my age.
“Interns,” Penny mumbled under her breath. “Trust me, they won’t look nearly this alive by the end of the summer, especially not if they’re research drones like me. Oh, except that girl with the new designer shoes. I’ll probably be working for her in two years if I’m lucky.”
“Why?” I frowned.
“Interns don’t get paid in anything but prestige, and they work full-time like the rest of us. Those shoes alone probably cost two weeks of my salary.”
“Ah,” I said. I finally got what Penny was saying. The math didn’t add up, but the money had to come from somewhere.
“Morning, sir,” the girl now chirped to Father, who in reaction, immediately stepped in front of me, blocking me from the group’s view. “Humid day, isn’t it?”
Father’s smile stretched unconvincingly wide. “I believe it’s nothing out of the ordinary. I have some work to do—otherwise I’d love to talk more, especially about your role at the Institute. It would be wonderful to see you follow in your aunt’s footsteps someday. And of course, also wonderful if she might get back to me about loosening that budget freeze in our department …” He chuckled.
I stepped out from behind Father’s shadow, bristling. The girl tilted her head quizzically, almost as if she recognized me from somewhere. She was short like Penny, with black hair neatly plaited into ribboned braids. Pretty.
“I’m Anna,” she said, holding out a small manicured hand. “And you are …”
“Busy. Unfortunately, we must be going,” Father said, answering for me before whisking both me and Penny away from the group.
Father didn’t seem too concerned by the potential impact of natural disasters, or even the fact that I was annoyed at him for not introducing me to the group of Institute interns. There was something far more urgent on his mind: his science presentation at an upcoming conference.
His work called him back to East Asia, where he’d be speaking at an academic conference about the latest development in Cogs to important groups of investors, suppliers, and tech journalists. The Institute relied on him for additional funding for project development. But something made him pause and reconsider even attending, important as it was. Me.
“Nothing’s wrong with Marietta,” Penny insisted again. “She’s done perfectly in all her performance checks.”
But Father remained unconvinced.
After the interns left, we walked between the lab and Father’s apartment several times for additional performance checks. I did everything he asked, knew everything an Uphiller was expected to know culturally.
I sent my first email, waited in a long and pointless line, and mumbled, “Excuse me, pardon me,” to at least a dozen different people. Discreetly, because Father wasn’t sure if the public was ready to meet his extremely gorgeous, muscular daughter yet. In public, to his acquaintances, he never even referred to me directly. Only when it was the three of us did he call me Marietta.
He carried his notebook with him and made marks in it whenever I said anything that surprised him. There were tons of marks. I was beginning to suspect that to Father, surprises weren’t a good thing at all.
I forced myself not to flinch when he addressed me. Rotten girl, my Cog whispered snidely. You’re not really Marietta, are you?
I drew my beige trench coat around myself tighter; I buttoned myself in. I willed myself to look up, always. To look ahead and not look down that long hill.
While Father and Penny worked at the lab, preparing for his big upcoming conference speech or whatever, I poked around the apartment.
Outside, the rumble of automatic lawn mowers droned. They were maintaining the hill in a pointless attempt to keep it pristine. They were cutting away the wild blackberries and scaring off the ravens. No one drove the lawn mowers; they drove themselves.
They probably had sensors to avoid running into pedestrians. I wondered what they looked like, under their metal skin.
I’m different from them, I told myself. Of course I was. My Cog was more complex, my skin organic. I could bleed. The terrible blood test had proved that.
There was nothing wrong with me, at least certainly not on the outside. Plus, hello, anyone could see that I was a babe. Tall, muscled, simply stunning. I was a fast runner, deft climber, and flexible dancer too. Various performance checks had ascertained that. There was nothing I couldn’t do well.
I picked at a loose thread in my arm, worried it out while I went through Father’s meticulously organized files in his study. Just a few minor scars were left, which I knew would fade over time.
Poking around other people’s things was frowned upon, but it was honestly more important that I figured out what could possibly be wrong with me. So I decided that it was fine to do a little sleuthing.
The files in his desk were incredibly boring: taxes, out-of-date research, receipts. I skimmed his books, which were equally dull and dry. The most interesting aspect of Father’s study that I saw were the framed awards hanging above his desk. They formed a map of his life, leading him to Amaris City.
He’d received prizes for his contributions to scientific research, spanning decades. His first honor was a scholarship for his creativity in computer science, given to him by his undergraduate program in China. They expanded and grew more impressive the further down the line I looked. The latest was from the Institute of Scientific Progress—the very Uphill institution I’d been born into.
I knew Uphillers were pretty much all affiliated with the Institute. They were medical researchers, software engineers, surgeons, academic lecturers, technical writers, and marketers. They were assisted by automatic devices, like the lawn mowers outside. Or interns, Penny probably would’ve quipped.
Heat crept up the back of my neck. I ran my fingers against the bump at its base, finding the flap where my Cog had been inserted. Even though I was alone, there was a part of me that wanted to hide it. To cover it up, mask it somehow.
Even if there was something wrong with me, Father would fix it. Alter me as needed. Soon, he’d proudly introduce me to everyone. And because of me, he’d have another accolade to add to the vast collection on his wall.
I prowled through the apartment, suddenly restless. But I knew I couldn’t go outside. Father had forbidden it because I might not be ready yet.
I ate my way through a bag of creamy White Rabbit candy, licking the sticky bits stuck in my teeth. When that didn’t sate my boredom, I polished off the tea eggs that were in the fridge. I did two hundred push-ups. I played Bach’s Goldberg Variations on the piano.
Bored. I was still bored. The apartment felt too small and stifling. I wanted to be out.
There was nothing left to do inside. A lot of the physical objects were redundant—I’d already been familiarized with them through the downloaded modules in my Cog.
I busied myself with tasks befitting Uphill culture to pass the time. I sent a somewhat terse email about how to acquire more White Rabbit candy and cc’ed anyone important I could think of—the mayor, the president of the candy company, heads of various media organizations. I finished a crossword puzzle in under ten seconds. I polished my dress shoes until I could see my own face grimacing back at me.
While scouring for the next thing to do, I saw Penny’s black handbag, half-hidden under the row of beige trench coats in the foyer. She must have left it behind when they went to the lab.
It was one thing to poke around Father’s study; it seemed like an extra step to go through someone’s bag. But there was nothing else in the apartment.
Plus, it wasn’t like Father or Penny would be back anytime soon. I could be really fast too. I could process everything in there in a matter of seconds, thanks to my incredible Cog.
So I took the bag, feeling somewhat sheepish, and retreated with it to my bedroom to investigate things further.
I tried not to think about the acid-green frog of possible doom while I sat on the edge of my too-small bed, staring down into the bag that was not mine, that was clearly private property, that my Cog told me was not a good idea to peruse.
When I finally opened it, it was like opening a portal to another world. It was totally different from the world I lived in now … and I loved it.
I’d never seen anything like Penny’s possessions before. I read a small booklet about music, featuring musicians that looked nothing like Bach or Brahms. The ones in Penny’s bag had spiked hair instead of white wigs. Their eyes were smeared in black shadow, their lips red with gloss. Nitzer Ebb, Ministry, Siouxsie and the Banshees. No one Uphill ever looked like that.
There was a bootleg CD in her bag, which I immediately put on in lieu of the Vivaldi’s Cello that had been slotted in the player. The track list was scrawled in black. Illegible and covered in spiky doodles. The song was loud, brash, and upbeat. I danced to it, admiring myself in the mirror. Something wasn’t quite right. I rolled up my slacks and unbuttoned my shirt. Now that was much better.
I went through booklet after booklet—zine, as I soon discovered they were called from reading their pages. My Cog filed this away. I felt pleased to be learning something new.
Time passed in a blur. I found myself immersed in pictures of clothing that looked nothing like Uphill attire. Torn fishnet stockings, tall black boots with silver buckles. Nothing was ironed or starched. Nothing even looked new. Instead of smiling, the models pouted and scowled.
Where could I even get stuff like that? I wondered, but I already knew the answer.
Downhill, or off-island.
Penny was no Uphiller. That was clear at this point. The rotten girl tattoo had been barely obscured under her white sleeve. When she wasn’t at work, she was Downhill. I was sure of it.
Down there, where my Cog had formed no associations—until now. Father programmed me this way on purpose.
What could even be so bad about Downhill? It seemed fun. More so than being stuck in this apartment, doing crossword puzzles and sending emails. Why would Father keep me away from it? Was there something he was keeping me safe from?
There was so much I didn’t know, and so much that I hadn’t experienced for myself. I tore through Penny’s things, hungrily. I couldn’t get enough.
I hummed along to Penny’s CD while thumbing through a magazine at the bottom of her bag. An old copy of Playgirl. Unlike the models from the fashion magazines, these wore very little clothing. I found myself drawn to a spread that folded out in the middle of the magazine. Very interesting.
I took out a little carton from her bag, which seemed to hold infinite objects, then opened it. I rolled one of the small paper tubes between my fingers. A cigarette—which I was now familiar with, thanks to the musicians in Penny’s zines. I lit the end of it with her lighter—a bedazzled pink and black one covered in rhinestone skulls—and inhaled deeply.
This was how Father discovered me, coming back from the lab. Playgirl in hand, smoking a cigarette.
“Shoot,” Penny said, seeing all her things splayed out on my bed. Her face was almost as pink as her hair. “I left my bag here.”
Apparently, I was in trouble.
I had never seen Father so furious before—though I guess I had only really known him for twenty-four hours. And maybe he wasn’t actually that mad.
“Lights on,” he said, and the room brightened.
“Music off,” he said, and there was silence.
“Marietta, explain what you’ve done,” he said, and I found myself struggling to articulate it, complex Cog and all. I gathered Penny’s things, returning them to her bag. I ashed the cigarette out in a plant on the windowsill, which only made Father’s frown deepen.
Penny attempted to interject, but Father wasn’t having it at all. The way he looked at me, you’d have thought I killed someone.
“I was just reading and listening to music—”
“And smoking cigarettes,” Father said.
“One cigarette,” I clarified, but it did nothing to help the mood. Father looked wordlessly at my rolled-up sleeves, my creased trousers, my tussled hair. He coughed meaningfully and turned up the air filter. Processed air chugged out, instantly evaporating the scent of tobacco.
Why couldn’t he simply open the window? What made this better than what was out there?
Outside, there was the sound of lawn mowers rumbling. There were still weeds to contain, even at night. Uphill had to stay polished—it was part of the Institute’s culture—and Father was the same way. All polish, and not a hair out of line.
“I’m supposed to be leaving for my flight tomorrow evening,” Father said. His words splashed over me like a shock of cold water. “It’s an important conference. The results will dictate not only my future, but also yours.”
“It’s only been a day. She’s doing great,” Penny said, cutting in. She put a warm, reassuring hand on my arm, and I glimpsed the phrase rotten girl once again peeking out from under her sleeve.
“This isn’t what I had in mind for my daughter’s second day,” Father said. There were long pauses between his words again, heavy with some meaning I couldn’t register. “She shouldn’t have pried into your possessions either, Penelope. She knows it’s wrong.”
“She was bound to be curious at some point. You can’t control everything,” Penny said with a shrug.
“Can’t I?” Father asked.
Neither of us answered that.
Behind those wire-rimmed glasses, Father’s eyes widened. Something was dawning on him. A big revelation, based on how quickly his face changed. A mosaic of expressions crossed his face: surprise, fear, then finally, resignation.
Something was dawning on me too. Maybe I wasn’t Marietta, after all. Maybe I was just wearing her skin.
“It’s not the exterior that’s the problem. It’s the Cog.” He was speaking past me, to Penny.
“I’m still learning!” I protested, feeling rankled. “What’s the big deal?”
Father’s smile was somber. “But just what are you learning?”
I could be Marietta. I could try harder. I had to.
I could learn to love my beige trench coat and emails. I could stand at Father’s side, as crisp and neat as he was. I could be the perfect daughter and win him all the awards.
“What do you want, Marietta? What’s your purpose?” he asked. The pen hovered over the notebook, and I knew what I told him next would be important. Would potentially change everything.
Part of me wanted to tell him a lie. My Cog encouraged this. I should chalk up this afternoon as an error. I should restate my interests as his. It was what he wanted to hear.
I want to live Uphill, with you, forever. I want to do whatever you think is best. Assisting, helping, lifting whatever he needed in the lab.
But now that I’d seen what was out there, even in those small glimpses from Penny’s bag, I knew I had been irrevocably changed. I was straying further and further away from Marietta. I was turning into someone else entirely.
Marietta wasn’t even my name. It was far too dainty and neat. I was something wilder. I was native to Amaris, after all. The words were flying out now, uninhibited like the cawing ravens, the irrepressible berries.
“My name is Helga,” I told them both. Proudly. Loudly. “And I want to go Downhill!”