THE SWITCHBLADE CATCHES on the seam of my pocket but eventually frees from the twists and folds of the inner lining. Slowly and purposefully, I draw the razor-sharp edge of the blade across my naked forearm, dragging it with appreciable force along the well-worn furrow in my skin. The face in the bathroom mirror winces with the familiar burning—flesh splitting apart, hot blood erupting from within. The heat pulses in waves along my arm and into my brain. This is my body. This is my pain. This is my blood dripping to the floor, smacking these flawless white tiles.

Whining again, little zalupa? the voice in my head says.

“Please, not today.” The hand towel is already saturated with my blood.

Every day, you pathetic kozel. There is no escape from me—from us.

“Just leave me alone, Vedmak.”

I decided to give it, give him, a name a long time ago. It only seemed right. He is Vedmak, a creature who emerged from the concoction of horrors described in my many books on old Russia. Ghastly tales, from the very real Bolshevik war to horrible fairy tales told to children. I have never seen him, only heard his menacing voice. If he did have a form, he’d be a tall, thin man with cold blue eyes and colder white skin. He’d have long gray hair and boiled-leather clothing, wrapped in a heavy wool cloak.

Pah. Books? Always have your head buried in those relics. Why don’t you use the neuralweb like everyone else? my demon rasps. His voice is like gravel being rubbed into the soft tissues of my brain.

“I have enough voices in here; I don’t need to cram in anything more. Besides, you know as well as I do that if someone fished around in here, they might find you. Then we’d both be dead.”

Defects of all types are weeded out of Graciles. Imperfections are diagnosed in the neo-womb or as a youngling, and then the being is erased. And by erased I mean euthanized. Murdered. Axiotimos Thanatos, the Leader calls it. We call it being Ax’d. Schizophrenia, dissociative identity disorder—whatever my affliction is, it will never be tolerated. It must be kept secret at all costs.

Such a little coward.

“Just go away, Vedmak.” How juvenile.

“Mitya?”

Did someone call my name? The voice is muffled and distant.

“Mitya, who are you talking to?” calls the voice.

Damn. Nikolaj. He must have heard me through the bathroom door.

Vedmak snarls. Tell him to get lost.

“Mitya, are you even listening?”

He always calls me Mitya. A nickname, an abbreviation of Demitri from the old world. Thinks it makes him sound intelligent. My younger neo-brother, just two years my junior, is incredibly arrogant. Vedmak hates him.

In a practiced motion, I wipe up the blood on the floor with the hand towel and stuff the red-stained rag into the cleansing chute. I slather my wound in derma-heal gel, then roll down my sleeve. One last scan of the room for evidence of my injury, and then I slide open the bathroom door.

“Mitya? Are we going to the lab today or not? We’re running late.” Nikolaj’s eyes flash angrily. He’s already in his environmental suit. “You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

“I am. And don’t call me Mitya, Nikolaj. You know I hate it.”

Ha. The sheep has learned how to bark, Vedmak says, cackling.

Don’t listen. Just focus on Nikolaj. “Of course we’re going to the lab. The accelerator calculations are still pending, and we’re on a deadline.”

“Good. Get your ass in gear. Put on your suit, and let’s go.” Nikolaj gestures toward the door and runs off to retrieve his helmet from his bedroom.

A moment later he returns, his wavy chestnut hair newly combed over his head and fixed into place with the usual inordinate amount of lacquer, his skin glowing from a quick cryorejuvenation blast. Just like me, he has almond-shaped hazel eyes, chiseled cheekbones, caramel skin, and a smooth jawline. Like all Gracile males, he stands an impressive two meters tall, with all the right muscles in all the right places. Neither of us needs to exercise to achieve our physique. We’re the latest generation of Graciles—grown in glass wombs from carefully designed DNA maps. Our kind is constantly revised and improved. Initially genetic modification was so we could create immune systems that would resist the New Black Death, the NBD, but we’re far past that now. These days, modifying our progeny feels like vanity more than survival.

Nikolaj wedges his helmet between his arm and his hip, then eyes me critically. “Sometimes I doubt we came from the same neo-womb, you know that?”

I know that. He tells me often enough.

“You should grow your hair out. Crew cut is so last year.”

Why bother? I’ll never be Nikolaj, never really be accepted. “C’mon. Let’s get a move on. Can’t be late,” I call over my shoulder, fumbling with the door lock. Though I’m unsure if I’m talking to Nikolaj, Vedmak, or myself.