Three weeks before I died, Dalmar had asked me why I liked the Beatles so much.
“Best musicians of their century,” I recited, as I had many times before. “And ours. And all the ones to come.”
“Yeah, but why? You think that lots of Paul’s melodies are saccharine and some of John’s experiments are horrible and Ringo—”
“Ringo is perfect,” I warned him. “Don’t say anything about Ringo.”
He grinned at me, the wide flash of teeth that always made me feel shaky and warm. Even in our garage “studio,” that smile belonged to a star. “You say things about Ringo.”
“I’m allowed. I love him most.” I fiddled with Owen’s guitar strap. “Have you seen my dopey brother?”
“He’s in the kitchen, trying to get money out of your mum. There’s a live gig at the Corner—”
“Oh, the pig! If he wants money, he can get out of bed and help her at the markets, like I do!”
He shrugged. “Really, why the Beatles?”
“They changed the world,” I said. “And they changed themselves. I mean, there are lots of reasons I like them. They were amazing composers, and they reformed pop forever, and they gave young people a voice. But they also realized they’d made terrible mistakes, and they tried to reform themselves. Like, John, he hurt a lot of people—”
“He hit his first wife,” Dalmar said. “And he cheated on her.”
“Yeah. He had a lot of anger, and he took it out on people. And doing those things was bad, the sort of thing that’s bad forever. You don’t get to take that back; the best you can do is change yourself and never do it again.” I tightened my hands on the guitar strap. “I just… I need to believe that people can change, Dalmar. The world’s so horrible, and I’m scared that no one’s going to care enough to do anything about it, and I really need to believe that they can.” It was the first time I’d ever said it to anyone else.
“The Beatles give you hope,” he said softly.
I nodded. I didn’t dare look at him. “You give me hope, too,” I said. “Well, you know. On your better days.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Tegan Marie Mary Oglietti.”
“I should never have told you my confirmation name,” I said, and looked up. He was staring at me, and for a moment, I saw uncertainty in his eyes.
But that was absurd. Dalmar was never uncertain about anything. It was one of the reasons I’d been in love with him for years, without hope or expectation.
He moved closer to me, and I felt my heart contract. “Tegan Marie Mary Oglietti,” he said softly, like a prayer.
And then, of course, Owen crashed in, having scammed forty dollars off Mum, and dragged Dalmar off to the gig, while I sat in the garage and practiced until Alex turned up and we hit the old sewers for some urban exploration.
It makes me wonder, now. What if Owen hadn’t come in? What if Dalmar had said what I now know he’d been planning to say right then? What if he’d kissed me, in the garage that smelled of old socks and the pine air freshener Owen loved?
We could have had three weeks, not one day. If I’d been standing a little to the left, if the sniper’s aim on the Prime Minister had been better, we might have had a lifetime.
But “what if” and “might have had” have never been any real use to anyone.
Hope, though. That’s still important.
I didn’t look at Abdi for the rest of the class—surprisingly easy, with Kieran giving me the hard word on filling in the gaps in my education. He made me take a battery of tests before he conceded that my sight-reading wasn’t totally abysmal and my knowledge of musical history—up to a hundred years ago, anyway—was almost up to par. He loaded Koko with a bunch of music references to get me up to date on the last century and told me to pick two other instruments to start learning—preferably a percussion and a wind.
But there were no further hints that I didn’t belong in Kieran’s class. And when he let us go, Abdi and I, through unspoken agreement, lingered. Zaneisha stood near the door, doing her best impression of a human statue.
“Thank you,” I said, without looking at Abdi’s face, and jumped off my stool. “After I—I mean, that was really pretty cool of you.”
“I don’t like bullies,” he said.
“Yeah, well, apparently that’s just part of the deal, and I’m going to have to get used to it.”
“It’s not something you get used to,” he said, and I looked up at him.
“About yesterday—” I said, and he made a cutting gesture with his hand.
“Bethari talked to me, about this Dalmar. Do I really look like him?”
“A little bit,” I admitted. “But not a lot. I screwed up, and I’m sorry.”
“He was Somali, she said. From Somalia?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Somali from Djibouti,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “I looked you up. You’re a popular guy on the tubes. Lots of information.”
He smiled, then—a small, guarded smile. There were a few stubbly hairs at the corners of his lips that he must have missed shaving. I felt something tingle down my spine. Stop thinking about his mouth, Tegan Marie.
“But the tubes didn’t tell you I liked the Beatles.”
“That was a surprise,” I admitted. “Are you a big fan?” Oh god, please make him say yes.
The smile grew. “Did John ask the Queen Mother to rattle her jewelry at the Royal Command Performance?”
I nearly collapsed with relief. The questions boiled out of me like rice from an overflowing rice cooker. “What’s your favorite album? Do you listen to the solo stuff? What’s your take on the Yoko question?”
“Revolver, some of it—not Wings—and what’s the question?”
“Whether she was a scheming money-grubbing bitch who broke up the Beatles or the woman who brought John the most happiness and therefore should get credit for being the best helpmeet.”
“Um,” he said, eyeing me carefully. “An artist in her own right who married another artist and managed his money because he was very bad at it? The Beatles broke up because they were fighting more days than they were playing.”
“That is the right answer,” I said, and beamed at him.
He smiled back. “My turn. What’s your least favorite song? Do you listen to the solo stuff? And how much of their work can you play?”
“ ‘Revolution 9,’ and I’ve listened to it all, but Ringo’s All-Starr stuff is the best, and I can play nearly everything.”
“Are you joking?”
“No. Some of it I need tabs for, though. Oh, we have to do something from Revolver together. Can you play guitar? Your voice would be great for ‘And Your Bird Can Sing.’ Or ‘Good Day Sunshine,’ though I don’t know; maybe people would want the harmonies there, and I definitely can’t manage them, though Kieran’s saying that with training I’ll get better and—”
“I can’t sing,” he said, and this was so clearly a total lie that he amended it immediately. “I mean, I don’t sing.”
I thought about saying I understand or It’s up to you or anything else that was empathetic and accommodating, but what came out of my mouth was, “Well, you’re really good.”
He didn’t seem offended, though. “Thanks.”
“Like really good,” I said. “Why did you stop?”
“Everyone asks that.” The smile was gone, his lips in a rigid line, and I was sorry I’d asked. But not too sorry to wait for the answer. “When they ’cast me singing… it was big. I don’t want all that attention. They want to use it; they want to use me—”
“That I can understand,” I said. “I hate it, too.”
He shook his head. “Do you know what people say about thirdies?”
I flinched. “Yes.”
“The Talented Alien thing, it’s like they think they rescued me, you know? Like I should be grateful they were so kind. But the truth is, someone from home who can show firsters that we’re not stupid and corrupt can be a spokesperson. My family… my community. It’s wrong, and it’s stupid, but they need someone firsters trust.”
“So no singing,” I said.
“No. I’m good with the flute, good enough for this class. They can’t complain. I miss singing, but I won’t perform for them.”
Inspiration struck. “Well, hey, do you want to come over to my place sometime? I can guarantee that no one’s going to get through the door that my security team doesn’t want there. I don’t have Ringo’s stuff—I couldn’t afford it—but I have the Beatles collection. And maybe Bethari could come. I’m trying to teach her—”
“I can’t be friends with you in public.”
The flat statement hit me in the stomach. “I see.”
His light eyes were rueful. “You’re a big deal. You attract a lot of attention. And as soon as someone sees me going to your house, or getting into a car with you, or something like that, it’ll be very public.” He hesitated. “But we could be friends privately, perhaps.”
“Like some sort of secret friendship affair?” I said.
He winced. “That sounds bad, doesn’t it?”
“Little bit,” I said. “Okay. You don’t want to do public. Well, sure, I get it, but I’m not going to do private. I’ve got my principles, too.” And my pride, I nearly said. Far too much pride to let him know that he’d hurt me.
It was really petty to feel bitter about someone deliberately avoiding the kind of attention I found so difficult to deal with. But I’m really petty sometimes.
Bethari, bless her, chose that moment to call me.
“I’m on the roof!” she said in my ear. There was a small pause that I chose to read as significant. “We can talk.”
Right. Secret projects and a man bleeding out in a church should definitely demand more of my attention than a smart, cute, talented guy who didn’t want to be seen with me in public.
“See you in class,” I said, and swept out the door, Abbey held proudly in my arms.
The main building’s rooftop was a garden run by the first-year students; Elisa M put it in all its publicity materials. I’d scoffed at the pictures; from my experience with similar programs back home, I’d expected it to be a scrubby thing with shallow, unfilled holes and empty chip packages blowing around dying trees.
But this looked exactly like the tubes had said it did. Soft fake grass on the walkways and lounging patches, but in the beds, real grasses and shrubs, so much green massed together that it made me gasp. There were paper daisy bushes, just beginning to bloom pink and yellow and white. There were snow gums, genetically modified to grow in this heat, and water gums and two long rows of tall Illawarra flame trees covered in hectic crimson blossoms. Most of the plants were natives, I thought, hardy and water-conservative, but I spotted a couple of lemon trees laden with fruit, and I could smell something that hinted at an herb patch farther on.
The whole thing was all watered with the school’s gray water and grown in compost mixed from food scraps and humanure.
And in the middle of all that color waited Bethari, wearing a long gray dress, a purple-and-gold headscarf, and gold sandals.
She was also wearing a huge grin.
“You heard,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“The news is everywhere,” Bethari said. “All over the tubes. Big music nodes, news sources… you have no idea. Abdi Taalib sings with Tegan Oglietti. All witnesses agree it was an amazing performance. Is there a significance in choosing a song from her era? Will they form a band? Can she make him sing again? Will they get together, go back to Djibouti when his visa runs out, and have eighty zillion babies?”
“The Beatles aren’t from my era,” I said. “Not even the same millennium.”
Bethari ignored this petty detail. “And here I am,” she said. “In the center of the storm, and I can’t say a word.”
“Not one,” I said. “And that’s why you get the good oil. Yes, he sang. Yes, he’s amazingly good. No to the band, no to singing again, and definitely no to the babies.”
“They’d be very cute babies,” she said. “Don’t you think so, Zaneisha?”
“I have no opinion on babies,” Zaneisha told her. “Tegan, please stay under the shaded area.”
“You’ll burn like toast,” Bethari said cheerfully, and tugged me over to a bench under an Illawarra flame tree. Zaneisha stayed by the entrance—out of earshot, if we kept our voices down.
“I think she’s worried about another Inheritor turning up,” I said. “Or maybe Carl Hurfest hiring a jet pack to get more shots of me.”
“Jet-pack fuel is very expensive. He’s settling for showing that ‘interview’ with you over and over again, with additional commentary from music sources.”
“I hate him.”
“About the Inheritor who died… do you want to talk about him?”
Of course I did. But Bethari’s chin moved left and right, and I followed her cue. “Not really.”
“Oh, good, because I came up with the perfect distraction! Let’s talk about Dalmar.”
I was trying not to show my confusion, but it was difficult. “There’s not much more to tell.”
“Don’t be shy. No one can hear us.” She winked and took her hand out of her pocket. There was a small object blinking a steady green in her palm. “Surveillance interference,” Bethari said, tone switching from wheedling confidence to crisp and businesslike. “I borrowed it from Mami, so I’m sure it works, but if they are listening, we’ll only get away with the ‘but we wanted to talk about sexy times in private’ excuse once. What’s going on? And where’s my computer?”
“I broke it,” I said. “Do you have a spare?”
“Yes, but—wait, you what?”
“Sorry. It seemed like the best idea at the time.”
Bethari opened her mouth, snapped it shut again, and folded her hands deliberately in front of her. “Start from the beginning,” she suggested. “And don’t miss a single detail. I am very interested in how you came to that conclusion.”
I told her everything.
By the time I was done, she was looking more interested than angry, a frown creasing her forehead.
“It’s a shaky lead. All you have is a name and an address.”
“And a dead man,” I reminded her. “I’m pretty sure Gregor killed him just to shut him up about the Ark Project.”
“That’s a little more substantive,” she conceded. “And when you think about it, it is strange that they brought you back. Even if they’re having trouble finding the right kinds of bodies, wouldn’t it make more sense to practice on more modern patients first? I mean, I like you a lot, but you didn’t exactly come equipped to handle this century.”
I shrugged. “Apparently, most people donating their bodies to science these days specify that they don’t want to be used for revival research. They want the bits to be used right away, I guess. And of course people who do want to be revived want to belong to themselves after revival.”
“So you think they used you because your donation form was so vague, they could hold on to you afterward?”
“I’m sure that’s part of it,” I said. “But the Inheritor implied this Ark Project has something to do with me.”
“And how did he find out?” Bethari said. “And why do they even care?”
“Exactly.” I tapped my fingers on my knees. “I have a lot of questions.”
Bethari spread her hands. “Okay. I guess I forgive you for smashing my computer. Even though I had just updated my contacts and archives.”
“I’m sorry,” I said humbly. “Aren’t they backed up on your house computer?”
“Well, yes. But some of my apps aren’t, because they are the kinds of things that might make Mami ask questions. I’ll have to re-create them. So, when are we visiting this mysterious address?”
“We?” I asked. “Bethari, look, your mother’s military. Are you sure you really want to risk—”
She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Tegan. I’m a journalist hacker. You don’t really think I’m going to let you have all the fun yourself?”
I laughed. “I guess not.”
“Good. Your bodyguards and the surveillance across the road might be a problem, though. I’ve never tried to evade people paid to watch me, and your place doesn’t exactly have a lot of escape routes.”
My brain was ticking over. “You live in Williamstown, right? Do you have an underground house?”
“I wish.”
“No, that’s good. I assume friends in the future still stay over at each other’s houses from time to time?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. It’s Friday night. I beg Marie for permission to stay at your house, she says yes, the bodyguards stay outside, and we climb out the window.”
“I deactivate the security system, set a program to trip the motion sensors once in a while so it looks as if we’re still there, and then we climb out the window,” Bethari corrected. “You’ve done this before?”
“Alex and I did it all the time. She had a lock-out curfew at the foster home, so she’d sleep over with me, and we’d sneak out together once Mum was asleep.”
“I think I would have liked your Alex.”
“I think you would have, too,” I said, and felt my throat close up. Bethari patted my shoulder and let me pull myself together.
“Are we done with the stuff we don’t want to talk about publicly?” she asked after a few moments.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Her hand twisted, and the green blinking light went out. “Really?” she said innocently. “In a fountain? That had real water in it? Tell me more about the strange wastefulness of your past-timer sexual practices.”
“You’re so gross,” I said, and Koko beeped to let me know I had an incoming message.
It was from Abdi. The message itself was blank, with not even a subject line. But he’d attached every single piece by Ringo and his All-Starr band. All the songs I hadn’t been able to afford.
I sat there, staring at the list.
“Why are you smiling?” Bethari asked.
I shoved Koko back in my pocket. “No reason,” I said. “I didn’t know I was.”
Marie was delighted when I proposed the sleepover. I could see her ticking off boxes in her head—Subject Engages in Voluntary Social Behavior after Witnessing Potentially Traumatic Violence—but she was also giddy with excitement on my behalf. She dropped extra money into my account for game purchases and added a ton of suitably unhealthy snacks to our shopping delivery.
Colonel Dawson was less pleased.
“Unacceptable,” he said, standing in the kitchen with his arms crossed. He’d arrived just as I was packing. Apparently this kind of outrageous behavior required a personal visit.
“I’ve given my consent, Colonel,” Marie said mildly.
“The security risks alone—”
“Tegan will be escorted there and back. Bethari’s mother is more than capable of providing on-the-spot defense should it prove necessary, and it’s hardly as if we’re going to announce Tegan’s location on the tubes. She’ll probably be safer there than in this house.”
“I should have been consulted ahead of time,” he insisted. “You decided this afternoon! Sergeant Washington and Master Sergeant Petrov have to initialize a surveillance base with almost no notice.”
“I think it’s time we clarified something, Trevor,” Marie told him. “I am Tegan’s legal guardian. I decide what’s in her best interest. I have agreed to some security measures because I’m concerned about her safety, but I am not going to unnecessarily restrict her movements. If she wants to stay one night with a friend of whom I approve, then she can.”
Hidden behind the slightly open kitchen door and spying through the gap, I pumped my fist in the air and narrowly avoided skinning my knuckles on the wall.
“Marie, Tegan remains the only subject who can tell us about experiencing the aftermath of the revival process. She’s an extremely valuable—”
“—sixteen-year-old girl,” Marie said over him. “Who should be allowed some of the freedoms she enjoyed before her traumatic and untimely death.”
Dawson shook his head. “I thought you believed in the vital importance of this project, Dr. Carmen.”
“I thought you were above such an obvious attempt at emotional manipulation, Colonel Dawson.”
Whoa. Go Marie.
“I think this conversation is over,” she continued. “We both have work to do.”
The worst thing was that I couldn’t see Dawson’s face. I had a feeling the picture would have kept me warm on cold nights. If cold nights existed anymore.
Gregor and Zaneisha were still exchanging put-upon glances as they escorted me to Bethari’s front door. She met me with squeals and ushered me into the living room.
“Mami, this is Tegan Oglietti.”
Bethari’s mother was a round, sturdy woman with an amused glint in her black eyes. She was still in her uniform and khaki headscarf, obviously having just gotten home from work.
“Thank you for having me, Captain Miyahputri,” I said, and handed over the fruit basket Marie had pushed into my hands as I went out the door. “Dr. Carmen says hello.”
“You’re very welcome, Tegan. Sergeant, Master Sergeant, would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you, Captain.”
“Where will you guys stay?” I asked.
Gregor grunted.
“Outside,” Zaneisha said. “Are you sure you—”
“Yep.”
“You can signal us on your EarRing. At any time. For any reason, if you notice anything strange—”
“What about when I go to sleep? I’ve never worn earrings to bed before.”
“Learn,” Gregor said.
Zaneisha scanned the hallway, the ceiling, the floor, and then looked straight at me. “Our martial arts training has been delayed twice,” she said. “We are starting tomorrow.”
I ignored the way it was phrased as a threat and beamed at her. “That sounds fun.”
Bethari was bouncing impatiently. “Come on, Teeg, let’s go upstairs!”
“Okay. Bye, guys! Have a good night!”
Bethari laughed as we went up. “That was mean.”
I shrugged as Bethari opened her door. “Not my fault they have to stay up all night keeping watch from the car.”
“Actually, it kind of is,” Joph said. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Geya, Teeg.”
I looked at her. Then at Bethari. “Um?”
“Joph’s going to stay here and move around. And cover for us, if necessary.”
I gave up and sat on the floor. “Cool. Thanks, Joph.”
“I did some research into past-time sleepovers,” Joph said. “Do we really have to braid each other’s hair?”
“I have the only hair long enough for braiding, so let’s not bother,” Bethari said, unwinding her headscarf. Long black waves tumbled down her back. “Mami’s not going to bed for a while, and I have prayer in a bit, so we may as well have some fun while we wait. Anyone got good games? I want to kill some zombies.”
A few hundred dead zombies later, we were on our way. Bethari had dark clothes for both of us, and I rubbed her dark purple eye shadow all over my face to prevent my white skin from flashing.
“You look ridiculous,” she whispered.
“No one’s going to see me,” I pointed out, my voice just as quiet. “At least, I hope not. You know what to do, Joph?”
Joph yawned. “Keeping watch isn’t that complicated. I’ll call Bethi if anything goes wrong. Give me your phone.”
“Why?” I asked, taking the EarRing out.
“They can probably track you with it,” she said. “My parents tried that all the time when I was a ween, until Bethi showed me how to disable it.”
“Won’t they know if we turn it off?”
“Probably. So I’ll just wear it.” Joph slipped the phone into the piercing on her other ear. “There. Have fun!”
Bethari’s eyes were glued to her replacement computer. “The security screen’s going down… now.”
I wrenched open the window and started down the trellis, hugging the wall. A few decades earlier, it had probably held roses. But the roses were gone, and what remained was a convenient exit route.
Bethari, for all her apparent skill with digital crime, didn’t seem to be experienced at this kind of subterfuge. When we hit the bottom, she started giggling.
“Shhhh,” I hissed, and hustled her toward the back wall.
She boosted me up, hands steady under my feet, and then I helped yank her up and over. She landed as lightly as I did on the other side. Cheerleading obviously lent itself well to breaking and entering.
The address was a warehouse in an industrial area, a forty-minute walk from Bethari’s house. I made Bethari stop jogging as soon as we were out of the immediate range of her house. It was strange not to have streetlights; they were probably considered a waste of energy.
“People notice runners,” I said. “We walk from here.”
Bethari made a face of mock terror. “I don’t know if my nerves can take it.”
“Some fearless journo you are.”
“Speaking of! I have a lead on a story, and it’s a good one. Did you know that poorer countries get charged prices that they can’t afford for patented medicines?”
“Sure. That happened in my time, too.”
“Well, it’s still happening, and it’s, what do you call it? Totally crapular?”
“Craptacular?”
“I love your slang. Yes. Things like Travis Fuller Syndrome and Maldonado Disease kill a lot of people, but they’re easy to treat—if you have the right drugs. One course of Serbolax will completely cure Travis Fuller, but it costs about twelve hundred dollars.”
It took a second, but I converted that to about sixty dollars in my time, or way out of reach for your average person below the world poverty line. “And they don’t discount, of course.” I was watching the few passing cars. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to us.
“No. And because they’re protecting their patents and the vast amounts of money they can make on them, they don’t let anyone make generic, low-cost versions. But people are anyway. They’re stealing or reverse-engineering the formula and smuggling in the drugs, or making them right in the countries that need them most.”
“Isn’t that dangerous? Taking homemade or smuggled medicines?”
“Not as dangerous as spewing up your lungs,” Bethari said bluntly. “Travis Fuller is awful. Anyway, today my sources confirmed that there are chemists making the medicines in Melbourne, and I have a lead on a customs officer who lets things slide through. I want to do an in-depth series, talking about why people take these risks, and how the pharma companies are losing their grip on the market.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, scanning the street for watchers on foot.
“Poor regional governments aren’t even bothering to ask them for help anymore; they talk to the smugglers instead. So, of course, the companies are pressuring their governments—including ours—to introduce more sanctions and tougher penalties for home chemists who make patented drugs, and—am I boring you?”
“No. This is it.” I leaned casually against the wall and jumped when it stung me.
“Hint about the future,” Bethari said. “Don’t touch private property unless you have a handy friend with a good computer. Though not as good as her former, and much mourned, other computer. Let’s go around the side.”
The gap between two walled yards was barely wide enough to qualify as an alley, and we had to feel our way down the walls as feral cats hissed at us.
Bethari stuck her tongue between her teeth, made me hold her computer, and got to work. In the light of the screen, her fingers gleamed as they moved through minute, intricate gestures.
I suddenly missed Koko, who had also stayed behind with Joph.
“They don’t have much security,” Bethari murmured. “Okay. Located the closed-circuit camera controls. Just need to branch the broadcast to… huh.”
“Teeg, I hate to say it, but you might have the wrong address.”
I turned her computer around to stare at the footage of the warehouse interior.
It was empty.