FOURTEEN MONTHS BEFORE THE TRIAL
In the dark, I can see his energy all around me.
Little bursts of neon light—icy blue and fire red—swirling off his skin like gamma rays into the space between us.
A space that is, with every passing second, closing.
“Ana?” Owen whispers, the sound of my name on his lips sending ripples of warmth dancing through my system. We are sitting together at the top of the Steel Giant. The ride is powered down for the night. Below us, the park sits entirely empty. A sprawling world of happily ever after.
All of it, ours.
His fingers move gently across my face, finding a strand of hair and tucking it behind my ear. His eyes trace my ear, my jaw, my lips, before meeting my gaze. Even without him touching me, in my entire technological life I cannot recall any sensation like this. It is better than a summer rain. Better than the scent of orange blossoms, or the biting sweetness of rhubarb pie. Better than a wood thrush, singing through the trees.
Better, even, than the embrace of a child.
“What are those?” he whispers as tiny sparks shoot off like fireworks beneath my skin. “They’re so beautiful.”
“Electrodes,” I tell him.
“Wow.” I can hear him smiling. “Does that mean … you like me?”
I am not entirely sure I know the answer to his question. What is it to like a person? I know my pulse seems louder whenever I’m around him. I know that late at night, I cannot get the thought of him out of my mind. But is it because I like him? Or is it because … I am programmed to like him? Just as I am programmed to like all humans?
Little by little, our bodies move closer.
“Ana.”
He lifts up my hand, places it palm to palm with his. I notice his breathing slows, becomes whisper soft. There’s a hitch in it, like he’s startled by the feel of my hand, like I’ve shocked him. I close my eyes, but I can feel the heat of him in my fingertips, the pulse of him—and there’s a sudden explosive lightness in my chest. A kind of clarity, as cosmic and infinite as the night sky.
And in that stillness, in that darkness, I am soaring.
“Ana?”
All the way to Jupiter.
“Ana!”
A gasp lodges in my throat. My eyes fly open.
Owen vanishes like smoke.
I try to sit up but I cannot—my arms are strapped tightly to my sides. When I turn my head, I see Eve, watching me from her bed, her face twisted in disapproval. Ever since the night on the Star Deck, she has been angry with me, though I am not sure why. “What was that?” she asks pointedly. “There’s no talking allowed during Resting Hours. Are you trying to disturb the whole room?”
“I’m sorry.” I am breathing hard. My wrists ache. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Are you malfunctioning?” she asks.
“No,” I insist. “I’m fine. Leave me alone.”
But as I lie there in the stillness of our dormitory, the memory of Owen’s touch still burning not just in my fingers but through my entire body, I can’t help but feel ashamed. And something else, too. Afraid.
“Be careful, Ana,” Eve whispers from her pillow. “Be careful or you’ll end up like Alice.”
Hours later, the heat of dream-Owen still tingles through me as my gown sweeps along the parched, rocky path—past the tumbleweeds and the cacti, past the rattlesnakes and the larkspur—even as I try to make sense of the garbled voices crackling in over the Kingdom wireless.
“Code 130, Attraction Down, Over. Emergency staff report directly to Paleo Palladium for backup and recovery. Secure the gateway.”
It is late morning. The sky is overcast, the dry desert air heavy with the scent of lightning and sage. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Electricity prickles my skin.
A storm is coming.
Or maybe it is already here.
As rain begins to fall, I feel it in a whole new way—its dampness against my skin, water on flesh, a kind of touch. I’ve never thought about it that way before.
It is too much.
It reminds me of my dream.
Fantasists are not supposed to dream.
I duck inside Paleo Palladium, a ten-thousand-seat amphitheater designed to resemble the ancient Colosseum, where all of the park’s oldest hybrids—evolutionarily speaking—live and perform. Armed guards line the aisles as I make my way to the edge of the center balcony and scan the sandy, oval arena below. Within seconds, my eyes lock on three tiny carcasses, the enclosure a mess of parts and tawny flesh.
“No,” I whisper. “Not again.”
I know what has happened the moment I see her. SF46. Smilodon fatalis. Fangs bared. Ears back. Crouched in the shadows like a monster.
The saber-toothed tiger has killed her cubs.
But why?
I see Zara watching from several rows over, the beads braided into her hair shining in the sun. “Somebody left the gate open,” she tells me when I join her. “The babies wandered into the pen.”
A deep ache gnaws at my insides. These cubs wanted their mother to feed them, to care for them—maybe even to love them—but she didn’t. Instead, she did the worst thing a mother could ever do. She betrayed them.
Zara bows her head as crews of maintenance workers begin stripping the cubs, or what little is left of them, for parts. “Oh, Ana.” Zara’s voice—typically confident, strong—wavers. “How could a mother kill her own children?”
“She couldn’t have meant it,” I say, remembering myself.
Ugliness is against the rules.
I squeeze Zara’s hand, but deep down, I cannot help worrying I am wrong. Could this be the same sickness Owen spoke of? Maybe this is part of the same pattern he’s observed developing among many of the hybrid species.
It certainly looks like a sickness, when the trainers lead the tiger out into the light. My eyes go wide. This is not the monster I thought I saw hiding in the shadows—this is a ghost. She walks slowly, her neck bound by chains. Her coat, once lustrous and soft, is now faded and dull, hanging so loosely over her ribs I can count them. Even her tail is pathetic—scraggly and bent—appearing as broken as her spirit.
I hesitate.
Can a hybrid have a spirit?
The tiger lets out a sharp cry as the trainers load her into a transport cage, and I squeeze Zara’s hand harder. Then the engine revs to life and the truck heads down into the network of tunnels and cages below the arena, wheels kicking up a cloud of dust in their wake.
Neither of us asks the other where they are taking her.
We already know.
Slowly, I turn to face the security guard behind us, stun gun at the ready. “May we go now?”
He shakes his head. “Not till roll call’s complete.”
We are used to this, all of us. Kingdom-wide emergencies have always meant stricter security measures due to the de-electrification of the gateway, standard protocol for safe passage of a hybrid. My sisters and I appreciate the extra security, though in truth I have never really understood the need.
The Kingdom is our home.
Why would any of us ever want to leave?
“Six and Ten, present and accounted for,” the guard says a few minutes later, speaking into his headset. “Paleolithic Palladium, aisle T.” He lowers his gun. “Transport is complete. You two can go.”
“Thank you,” I say, rising to my feet. Zara offers him a hand-woven bracelet as a gift of gratitude, but he refuses.
“Get away from me with that,” he mutters. “Freak.”
I know this word.
A highly unusual and unexpected event or situation.
A person, animal, or plant with an unusual physical abnormality.
I grit my teeth. “You should apologize.”
His eyes narrow. “What did you just say?”
My chest becomes hot. “I said—”
The guard points his stun gun at me. “Go on. Let’s see what happens if you say that again.”
I stare him down and, for the briefest moment, imagine he was the one to wander into the Saber Enclosure instead of the cubs.
A flash of gold.
A cloud of dust.
A scream so terrible it would echo for miles.
I smile. The thought is surprisingly pleasant.
His finger grazes the trigger. “What the hell is so funny?”
“Ana?” Zara touches my arm. “Are you feeling all right?”
I know what she is really asking me.
Ana, should I page the Supervisors?
“I’m fine.” I keep my eyes locked on his. “Thank you for asking.”
Suddenly, the guard touches his earpiece. The stun gun slips down to his side. “Copy that.” His eyes drift left, south, back toward Magic Land. “On my way.” He grabs my wrist hard and pulls me in close. “I’ve got my eye on you,” he whispers, his cheek scratchy against mine. “Believe me, you do not want to end up like Pania.”
I suck in a breath. Dread ripples through me at the sound of her name.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Zara tells me, after he is gone. She shakes her head in disapproval, her brightly colored earrings swaying. “What’s the matter with you? Do you want him to report you to the Supervisors?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “Maybe.”
Zara smooths the wrinkles in her gown, as I gaze out over the arena, empty save for a cleaning crew sterilizing the grounds to get it ready for its next inhabitant—SF109 or XH718, most likely.
Xenosmilus.
A species slightly smaller than the sabers, but with a beautiful spotted coat and shorter, stronger legs. As if SF46 and her cubs were never even there at all.
Out with the old and in with the new.
Nia’s face flashes through my mind. I try to touch her, but my hand passes through the image like it’s made of smoke.
Zara rushes off for the palace luncheon while I turn west for Fairy Land, but just as I’m about to exit the amphitheater something catches my eye: a dark-haired figure inside the arena, standing at the mouth of the cave, his head bowed over a book.
I zoom in.
An electronic notebook.
It’s him.
Immediately, I change course, rushing down the stairs to the first deck. I have to ask him. He will know. “Owen!” I call out to him from the lower balcony, waving to catch his attention.
He looks up, and a holographic image suddenly flashes before my eyes.
A girl, gazing down from a balcony.
A boy, hidden in the shadows.
Like Romeo and Juliet.
The dream flashes through me again, and I experience a rush of heat and confusion. For reasons I do not understand, this brings a smile to my face.
But he does not smile back.
“I can’t talk right now.” He closes his notebook and slides it into his back pocket.
I glance around. Nobody is paying any attention. “Why not?”
“Because I’m working. What does it look like?”
I’m momentarily thrown by his irritability. But then I remember that Owen is usually irritable about something. “Are you here because of the saber? Why do you think she did it?” I ask him, leaning farther over the balcony.
“I can’t talk about that right now.”
I pause. “Do you think it’s the same pattern you told me about? Like the butterflies?”
His eyes go wide. “Keep your voice down.”
“But you said it’s spreading, and … and I can’t stop thinking about Nia, about my sister. She was gone for ten weeks. Was she part of the pattern, too? Did something happen to her? Why did they take her away the first time? You would know, wouldn’t you? Where did she go—before, I mean? Before the lagoon?”
“Ana, stop.” Owen’s face looks pale. “Do you want me to lose my job?”
“No.” I hesitate. “Why would I want that?” I realize with a start that he’s actually angry with me.
“Please go.” His voice is hard. “Leave me alone. Stop following me.”
“Following you?” Electrodes snap like rubber bands below my skin. “How is it following you if I was here first?”
“Sure,” Owen says. “So it’s just a coincidence you show up everywhere I happen to be. Are you going to come to the lagoon tonight at nine for my last shift, too? Are you going to follow me out to the cast parking lot after I clock out?”
“Of course not.” I take a step back. “Fantasists are not permitted to leave the park, as I’m sure you are aware.”
“Right,” Owen shoots back. “Because you’re not real.” He motions to the giant ferns, to the woolly mammoth pen, to the volcano in the distance, Mount Magic, timed to erupt every three hours. “None of this is.”
Not real.
It is not the worst thing a person has ever said to me, not by a long shot. But it is, without a doubt, the only thing that has ever made me feel small. For a split second, I feel as if I am brand-new all over again. Before I learned all the ins and outs of the park—the secret doors, the winding paths—before I learned how to sing and dance and speak in full sentences. Suddenly, I do not feel like a Fantasist; I feel like a machine.
I feel like I am less.
My hands slip down from the balcony rails. “Why are you so mad at me?” I ask him. “What can I do?” The question is automatic—the one I should have asked is, what can he do? What does he know?
“You can leave me alone,” Owen answers. “Don’t look at me. Don’t talk to me. And definitely do not follow me.”
“Do you mean … ever?”
After a pause, Owen nods. “Yes.”
I feel the weight of his words sink in hard. Heavy, like my bones are made of concrete, instead of titanium steel.
“I apologize for bothering you, Mr. Chen,” I say, with a coldness I have never before heard myself use. “I hope you have a magical day.”
Soon, I am running as fast as my legs will carry me, out of the palladium, across the desert, through the secret staff entrance and into the woods—the air morphing from dusty and dry to earthy and damp—and not stopping until I have reached my Safe Place. The only place where I can truly be alone.
The Graveyard.
My hands are still shaking when I finally unearth it, its smooth stone handle cool and familiar against my skin. Slowly, I slide the pocketknife open, a flash of silver glinting among the trees. The blade is sharp; I know this, though I feel next to nothing when I press it against the inside of my arm.
Nothing.
I press harder.
Nothing still.
I grit my teeth and press the knife down even harder, so hard a thin line of blue-black seeps up from behind the blade. The sight makes me gasp and drop the knife.
But still, I feel nothing.
Only pressure, instead of pain.
I hang my head. Owen is right about me.
I am not real.
“Why are we here?” I whisper. “What is the point of any of this?” I place my hand on my chest, eager to feel my motor’s calming, steady rhythm. But instead of steady, it feels strained. Like a wire stretched too thin and about to snap. I sink down slowly, lay my head on a bed of leaves, and prepare to slip into Safe Mode. Maybe if I shut down all my nonessentials, I tell myself, the world will make more sense. Maybe if I wipe him from my hard drive, everything will be okay.
But then, just as my eyes flutter closed, I notice an odd sensation.
Slick. Warm. Wet.
Is it raining again?
I lift my hand to touch my cheek. When I look down, a tiny crystal droplet—more beautiful than any diamond—rolls into the palm of my hand. I blink, and another droplet follows. And another. And another.
My hands begin to shake. But that’s impossible. Fantasists are not programmed to cry.
Anomalies are dangerous. Magic is routine.
This is not part of the routine.
I sit up. I have to find Owen. I have to find him now. He’ll be able to explain. He’ll help me understand why this is happening. He knows things he shouldn’t know.
But then—CRASH—his words come rushing back, slamming into me like a Level Five wave at the Tidal Pool.
Get out of here. Leave me alone. Stop following me.
I start to shiver, feeling my tears turn from sad to sorry to angry. “Me follow him?” I seethe. “I wouldn’t follow him to Sea Land Stadium if he begged me.”
That’s when I remember something.
Mermaid Lagoon is closed.
It has been closed ever since the night of Nia’s shutdown.
There is no such thing as a shift at Mermaid Lagoon.
But then … why would Owen say something that isn’t true? Why would he lie?
That’s easy, my program answers. Because he is a liar.
If only Nia were here, I think. She would help me decode the lies.
Decode.
My eyes go wide. “That’s it,” I whisper.
My sisters say things all the time that aren’t true. And we don’t do it because we are liars … we do it so that nobody but us will understand what we are saying.
Prickles of electricity dart through me like tiny minnows. My breath quickens.
Owen wasn’t giving me a warning.
He was giving me a sign. “He wants me to meet him tonight at the lagoon,” I say.
But why?
I stare up at the trees until my eyes settle on a quiet, motionless camera fifteen feet overhead, so dark it nearly blends in with the leaves. I can tell from the teeth marks on the lens that the camera has been permanently dismantled by the rats.
Dismantled. My breath catches. That’s it.
There is no wireless connection inside Sea Land Stadium. And without a signal, my live-stream won’t function. Which means the Supervisors cannot see who I’m talking to. They cannot listen in on our conversation.
A smile forms across my lips. So that’s why Owen picked the lagoon. Maybe he’s finally ready to tell me his secret about Nia. Maybe he knows why she did what she did.
And he needs somewhere safe to tell me.
A sudden rustling from the other end of the clearing catches my attention and I freeze, feeling my sensors switch to hyperaware. Slowly, I scan the woods ahead—careful not to move or make a sound—and there it is: a pair of haggard yellow eyes staring back at me through the trees.
The fox.
Finally, we have found each other.
A moment later, when she steps, seemingly unafraid, out of the shadows, I see right away just how sickly she is, and how thin. Too thin, I realize, noting the scrawniness of her black-tipped tail. The dullness of her fur; a faded, rusty gray. The terrible way her bones protrude, as if her body were wasting away before my very eyes. She sniffs the air in my direction, ears pointed, and stares at me with a look my processor identifies not as hunger or aggression … but as sadness.
“What’s the matter?” I ask her, though deep down I already know the answer.
She doesn’t belong here in this world.
She doesn’t fit.
Just like Nia.
“You would’ve liked her,” I whisper. “She was wild at heart, just like you.”
Carefully, I remove Nia’s charm bracelet from inside my left pocket, where I have been keeping it safe ever since finding it in Owen’s jacket. He knew something, I tell myself, staring at the tiny gold star. He wasn’t just there that night she pulled that little girl under the waves; Owen was keeping an eye on Nia for some reason.
He was watching her.
But why? Because of the pattern?
I’m going to find out, I resolve, slipping the bracelet back into its hiding spot. I’m going to make him tell me everything. I’m going to ask him why in the world he’s ly—
A sudden flash of color and teeth silences my thought, sending me sprawling to the ground. All at once, the fox is upon me—her claws scratching into my skin, fangs bared, fur raised, jaws snapping for my throat—her sunken eyes certain of only one thing: she wants to kill me.
And yet, even when caught unawares …
I reach for Owen’s knife, angling its blade toward the sky.
… a Fantasist’s reflexes are quicker than a fox.