Chapter One

August 20X6, Pittsburgh

I smooth the short, jagged bangs of the black wig I wear as I exit the bathroom stall, pausing in front of the mirror to adjust the hair so the choppy layers frame my face and finish at my jaw. Satisfied my straight black eyebrows are in place, and the orange bars painted above my right eye and below my left haven’t smudged, I take a deep breath.

This is only my second real-world heist, and my first alone. Part of me can’t believe I’m going through with it, and as I stare at the face reflected in the mirror—the face I’m confident looks nothing like the real me—my pulse quickens. I’ve planned every detail, rehearsed every move, and I’m certain Allard wouldn’t give me a job I couldn’t complete. I was made for this. At least so I tell myself. I’m still waiting for adrenaline to kick in, and my fingers tremble as I swipe gloss across my temporarily full lips then stretch them into a knowing smile. Willa’s smile.

As far as my date for tonight knows, my name is Willa Miniex, and I’m an art Influencer studying at Carnegie Mellon University. For the two weeks I’ve been casing the Andy Warhol Museum, I’ve fooled their facial recognition (FR) cameras into believing I’m her by wearing a black, flat top cap that was a parting gift from Professor Allard, my mentor at Keystone—the secret school where I’ve been learning to steal analog history for the last year. The hat’s visor is wired with tiny infrared LED lights that are invisible to the human eye. When they’re arranged to shine on my face correctly, they can trick FR technology into reading my features as someone else’s. But I can’t wear the hat tonight because the lights have been rearranged to make my face read as my date’s later on. And though I’ve managed to make myself look enough like the real Willa to deceive the human eye, I have no hope of tricking the artificially intelligent ones. Instead, I’m relying on Disconnect makeup to keep the cameras from placing me at all—or recognizing me as my true identity, Influencer Ella Karman.

I pucker my lips, forcing a flirtatious sparkle into my eyes, mimicking one of the real Willa’s favorite expressions from her Network feed that I’ve obsessed over.

“Hi. I’m Willa,” I say to her—my—reflection, willing her essence to shine out my pores. I’m Willa. My brain buys in, even if my heart scoffs.

Click.

I jerk my chin over my shoulder and scan the empty bathroom, holding my breath, waiting for clacking heels to signify someone is coming. But all is silent. I might be hearing things, but some deeper part of me knows I’m rightfully on edge. This night won’t go as planned.

They never do.

With a glance at my wrist screen, I note the time. 8:23. The clock starts now. I straighten my skimpy black dress, clenching my stomach muscles against the hollowness in my core. After confirming my infrared goggles, grappling hook, LED hat and scrambrella—an umbrella designed to scramble all tracking signals, rendering me virtually invisible—are safely tucked inside in my handbag, I drape the beaded strap across my body and head for the exit. My high-heeled boots echo across the cement floor and my head swims with the possibility my footsteps are loud enough to alert security to my presence.

I’m here to steal an audio cassette from one of Andy Warhol’s Time Capsules and if I get caught, it will not only mean the end of my career as a thief, but it could put me back on the grid—back in the public eye—and I’ll do anything to avoid returning to my old, apathetic Influencer life.

I pause at the bathroom door, listening, my legs quivering, ready to run. The only sound is my heart tick-tocking in my ears. Don’t think. Just go. Sometimes it takes hurling yourself into the unknown to find your place. I should know. As far as most of society is concerned, I’ve been dead for a year.

And look at me now.

I inch into the hall, allowing the FR cameras to scan my face for the first time, and officially putting myself on the museum’s radar.

Willa may have been invited to this evening’s party, but my image won’t match with anyone on the guest list. The other people attending tonight’s charity event entered the building through the museum doors on Sandusky Street, submitting to a biometric eye scan that matched their DNA to the guest list before they were admitted to the festivities in the ground floor lobby. I didn’t have time to obtain AMPs—contact lenses that allow me to see augmented reality and could also disguise my eyes as Willa’s—so I made my own entrance, using a retractable grappling hook to climb up an outside wall to an opening in the garage near the freight entrance. After that I hid beneath my scrambrella to remain off the grid while I snuck into the museum’s basement restroom.

This is the moment of truth.

Half expecting an alarm to sound or for somebody to tackle me from behind, I walk down the hall past windows overlooking the (thankfully empty) worktables in the conservation labs with my back so rigid it aches. When I reach the elevator, I press the up button and wait. Tick tock, tick tock. My heart keeps time in my ears while my hands turn clammy inside my elbow-length gloves.

I know from the weeks I’ve spent cozying up to Tyson, my date for tonight, that the AI security system does its best to recognize and profile everyone in the museum, but it’s not perfect. The inconsistency reports are monitored by lowly humans. And that’s the downfall of the security at the Warhol I’m banking on.

Tonight, those humans—aspiring artists from the Maker caste, like Tyson, who act as docents in addition to chaperoning the artwork—will hopefully be distracted by their very rich—and increasingly sweaty—guests. On my way inside the museum, I cut the wires that lead to the air conditioning units from both the solar system and the backup batteries, and I’m hoping this hot August night will buy me extra time. Even though the guards will be busy with the cooling systems, they’ll come looking for me when I can’t be placed or matched to anyone on the guest list. Tyson told me they review the reports at a quarter after every hour, so I know the next check will be at 9:15. I’m hoping my air conditioning stunt will stall the inspection, though I can’t count on it. Ideally, if all goes as planned, I’ll be long gone by then.

If all goes as planned. I nearly snort. It never does. Expect the unexpected. Somehow, knowing that things beyond my control will happen, that I’ll have to stay on my toes, that I won’t let myself become complacent, unknots my spine and I swallow the laughter.

The elevator arrives and the doors slide open, revealing a blessedly empty car with drab gray walls. I step inside and press a gloved finger to the button for the first floor. The doors close and the car sails skyward, my blood pressure mounting with each passing second until my sinuses clear, a signal that adrenaline is kicking in. Finally.

I slip my purse strap over my head, adjusting it so it easily falls off my shoulder, and when the doors open again, I’m met with a blast of heat and the chattering din of a cocktail party. The setting sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows facing Sandusky Street, casting groups of fancy people sipping cocktails out of Campbell’s Soup cans, for the benefit of the UPMC Children’s Hospital, in an orange glow. No guards are waiting, guns drawn, to escort me off the premises and I bite my lip to keep from smiling.

Willa takes hold as I exit the elevator. She’s pins and needles pricking the muscles in my face, coming to life. Her presence heavy in my forehead, I look through her eyes and spot Tyson right away. Most of the color in the stark lobby comes from the colorful pop art lining the walls but with his messy, bleached-white hair sticking up on all sides, and wearing a mustard button-down shirt with giant white cuffs and burgundy leather pants, it’s as if Andy Warhol himself is leaning casually against a cement column in the middle of the party. If Andy Warhol was in his early twenties and staring off into space, probably scrolling through the Network on his AMPs, that is.

Squaring my shoulders, I slink around bar-height tables draped in yellow cloth printed with Warhol’s magenta cows, my confidence mounting that my disguise has carried me this far, until I come to a stop in front of Tyson. Fooling him is the least of my worries. He’s accepted my face as Willa’s from day one, otherwise only knowing her from her Network feed. Nobody expects people to look as flawless as their feeds in unfiltered real life.

He turns his focus to me, slowly registering recognition. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Really?” I tip my head to the side. “I’m right here.”

“It’s no wonder I couldn’t find you.” His eyes graze the length of my low-cut, asymmetrical dress. The longer half of the gown covers my tool garter, while the shorter half exposes plenty of leg.

“I barely recognize you without your hat and glasses,” he says, his accent charmingly British. He smiles as he takes me in. “You look amazing.”

He moved here from England and has dreams of catapulting to Influencer status through the work-study program at the Warhol. I don’t have the heart to tell him “good luck with that” even though I know the chances of anyone ascending from Maker to Influencer status are about as likely as winning a free trip to the moon. And it’s a bummer I kind of like him, because I’m only using him for his security access. But Keystone code. No falling for the target.

“Did you think I was on the ceiling?” I playfully squeeze his arm. “I feel like I could have done jumping jacks in front of you and you wouldn’t have noticed.”

“In those heels?” He eyes my strappy black boots.

“You’d be surprised what I can get away with in these heels.” I wink.

“Not much, I don’t think. I see everything.” He taps the corner of his eye with his right middle finger and the cuff of his sleeve lowers, revealing the blue bracelet I need to get my hands on if I want my plan to work. It will grant me access to the archives that house the Time Capsules which have a code that changes every day, so I had to wait until tonight to steal it.

“I was searching the security cameras for you.” He purses his lips.

I raise my eyebrows. “You have AMP security access? I thought you weren’t going to work tonight.” I jut out my lower lip in a pretend pout.

“Don’t worry. I’m technically on duty, but nobody here is a threat. I’m all yours. It’s just weird I couldn’t find you on the security screens.”

“Maybe because I was in the Underground bathroom? There aren’t cameras in there.” I shrug and change the subject. “Is it just me or is it really hot in here?”

He frowns. “The air conditioning broke. Hottest night of the summer, too. It could be affecting the security system.”

“Possibly.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Someone else will deal with it.” He offers me his right arm like he’s a proper gentleman. “Would you like to accompany me to the clouds?”

“The fifth floor is open? I thought they liked to keep everyone downstairs for events.” I link arms with him, resting my fingers lightly on his wrist as he leads me to the elevators.

“Fifth, sixth, and seventh are open. There’s a super-special donor who pulled some strings and they’re sneak previewing the new cloud augmentation tonight.” We enter the elevator and at the same time as he pushes the button for the fifth floor with his left hand, I press the button that releases the clasp on the access bracelet and remove it from his right wrist.

He doesn’t notice a thing.

“That’s cool, but I love the clouds without augmentation. I don’t think they need it,” I say, pressing a gloved hand to my forehead and dabbing at the moisture forming from the sweltering night, while “accidentally” dropping my purse.

“Me, too,” he says as we both bend to retrieve my bag. “But you’ve got to see this. It’s brilliant.”

We almost knock heads and burst out laughing.

“I’ve got it.” I giggle, rubbing my head as I scoop up my purse, seamlessly hiding the bracelet inside as I drop the identical decoy-bracelet I brought with me on the floor.

“Is this yours?” I pick up the fake bracelet and offer it to him.

The elevator doors open, and he grabs at his wrist. “Oh yeah, I don’t know how it came off. I’d be in big trouble if I lost it. This grants access to every room in the building.” He fastens the decoy-bracelet in place.

“Glad I found it, then.” I smile.

We exit the elevator into the echoey warehouse that is home to Warhol’s paintings from the 1970s and are met with an oppressive wall of air that makes it hard to breathe. Much like the lobby, the only color in the space comes from the paintings lining the white walls. It is furnished with couches covered in white parachute material, but otherwise, the stark gallery is empty. Probably because it’s trying to suffocate us.

Tyson picks up two Campbell’s Soup cans from a bar as we pass it, and hands me one. The outside of the can is slippery with condensation and I resist the urge to press the icy drink to my throat.

“Thank you.” I take a micro-sip of the cocktail, relieved it tastes like sweet blackberries and basil—not tomato soup—though I don’t plan on drinking it anyway. I need to keep my wits about me.

Tyson leads me to a small rectangular room on the far side of the gallery. The cloud exhibit, with its white walls and wood floors, is filled with dozens of shiny, pillow-shaped balloons. The silver pillows slowly bounce about the space, seemingly as they please, on the breeze from strategically placed fans.

I leave Tyson’s side and the floorboards creak under my feet as I walk to the center of the room. Careful to avoid the security camera’s watchful gaze, I stand alone in the center of the space, letting the clouds dance around me. Isolated in a reflective heaven, I am overwhelmed by the peace that overtakes me, and I marvel at the magic in the exhibit’s simplicity.

“One of my jobs is to take care of the balloons,” Tyson says, joining me.

I refocus my attention on him, bringing my head out of the clouds. “You’re a cloud-wrangler?” I shift my drink to one hand and straighten his collar, letting my fingers linger on his chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever met one of those.”

“Oh yes. It’s a big responsibility,” he says with pretend seriousness, wrapping his fingers around mine. “It takes around three minutes to inflate a cloud and some of them last seven days while others, not so much. Valve malfunctions are a real problem.”

“Fascinating.” I hold back a giggle.

“But are you ready for the real trick?” He stares off into space, directing his AMPs with his eyes. “You’re wearing AMPs, right?”

“Actually, I’m not.” Still holding my drink, I push my glove down with my thumb, so I can flash him my untraceable wrist sticker screen. “Mine are in the shop.” The truth is, I am wearing contacts, but only to disguise the color of my eyes, making them appear slate blue. They aren’t connected to the internet.

“I’ll find you some AR glasses, then. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” He heads out of the room.

“I’ll be waiting,” I call after him. “Unless I melt.”

“I’ll hurry,” he promises as he disappears around the corner.

Once he’s out of sight, I glance at my wrist. 8:39. It’s been less than twenty minutes. I should go now, get the tape. If I see him again, I’ll tell him I went to get some air. But if all goes well, I won’t see him again.

A tiny burst of heat erupts in my brain, interrupting my thoughts and sending a jolt of electricity down my spine. Despite the stifling night, goose bumps shoot up my arms and familiar buzzing begins between my ears. Even though I was alone in this room mere seconds ago, I detect someone’s presence behind me and I know who it is before I turn around.

There’s only one person who can sneak up on me.