“Do I look Scottish?”
“Your father was Scottish,” said Millie, opening the bed of a scanner and pulling out a sheet of paper. “You take after your mother.”
Nova opened her mouth to refute—her dad was Italian, her mom Filipino, and she liked to think she was a strong mix of them both—but she stopped herself. What did it matter what the world thought her name was, or where she got her blue eyes or her black hair? What did it matter if anyone thought her parents were Robert and Joy … whoever they were.
She couldn’t walk into the Renegades trials with the name Artino, and Nova Jean McLain was as good a secret identity as any.
She lifted the birth certificate. The next page was the required application to participate in the Renegade trials. It had been filled out using an old typewriter.
Name: Nova Jean McLain
Alias: Insomnia
Prodigious Ability (Superpower): Requires no sleep or rest; maintains full wakefulness at all times without any decline in aptitude from sleep deprivation.
“Insomnia,” Nova muttered. It wasn’t exactly the sort of name that would strike fear in the hearts of her enemies, but it wasn’t bad, either. She wondered if Leroy had come up with it, or Millie.
“There’s a spot on the last page for your signature,” said Millie, holding out a ballpoint pen. “Don’t sign the wrong name, now.”
Nova took the pen without looking up. Outside, the waves drummed a steady, crashing melody against the side of the boat. “I live on East Ninety-Fourth and Wallowridge?” She frowned. “Are there even habitable homes in that area?”
“Would you rather I put ‘subway tunnel off the defunct Mission Street station’?” said Millie.
Nova glanced up. “I just don’t want anyone to come investigating me and find out the residence in my paperwork is actually some convenience store that burned down twenty years ago or something.”
Millie cast an annoyed look at Leroy, who returned a placating smile.
“I am not an amateur,” she spat. Bending over a nearby desk, she started to sort the scattered pens, sticky notes, and razor blades into a collection of tin cans. “Should anyone come looking for you, they will find a two-bedroom row house that has been owned outright by Peter McLain for more than forty years.”
“Who’s Peter McLain?”
“Your uncle,” she said. “On page three, you’ll find a two-hundred-word personal essay on how grateful you are that he took you in after your parents’ untimely deaths.”
“Okay, but who is he really?”
“No one. A figment of my imagination. A phantom, existing only in paperwork. Don’t worry—all the paperwork will match up. As far as anyone knows, the house really is owned and occupied by Mr. McLain, and now his niece.”
Nova glanced at Leroy, but he was watching Millie. “The application required personal references, I believe? What did you find for those?”
“A grade-school teacher who thought Nova was a delightful student to have in her class,” said Millie, “and an old boss who saw it as a horrible loss when Nova chose to leave his employment, but who is thrilled to see her pursuing her dream of becoming a Renegade.”
“An old boss?” Nova flipped to the next page, where she saw that Nova Jean McLain had been working at Cosmopolis Amusement Park up until a month ago. “I’m a ride operator? Come on. A chipmunk could do that job.”
“Both references,” continued Millie, as if Nova hadn’t spoken, “are legitimate sources. True working civilians in this community who have graciously agreed to praise Miss McLain quite highly should they receive further inquiry about her.” Her gaze slipped toward Leroy. “Of course, you’ll be paying them for the honor.”
“Naturally,” said Leroy, looking down at the application. “Winston used to operate a side business out of Cosmopolis Park. I think he might have known this gentleman.”
Millie nodded. “His personal dealings fared much better under anarchy than the Council. It was not difficult to persuade him to this cause.”
Nova’s gut tightened as she read through the application, and she didn’t think it was from the constant swaying of the houseboat. It felt like there were too many holes in this hastily constructed life. An uncle she’d never met. Parents she felt no connection to. A teacher and an employer, a house and a job, and any one of them could be proved false if someone only bothered to dig a little deeper.
She had to remind herself that everyone born in the Age of Anarchy had holes missing in their records. All those things that had kept society organized before had been stripped away—from medical records to school enrollment, tax forms to bank statements. There was none of that. Only people trying to survive. To go on with life as best they could.
No one would think twice about where she lived or who she lived with or whether or not her old teacher was lying when she called Nova a delight.
The Renegades cared about finding the best prodigies to make their organization stronger, smarter, better. If she got in, all she would have to do was persuade them that she was worth keeping, and no one would care about her past or her connections.
They wouldn’t think to dig any deeper until it was too late.
“I trust it’s all to your satisfaction?” said Millie, looking not at Nova, but Leroy.
He nodded and pulled a roll of cash from an inside pocket. Millie took it and undid the rubber band, counting it out before rolling it back up. Nova watched it disappear in her fist with a new weight settling on her shoulders. She had not considered payment, or where that money would come from, but of course Millie would want something for her services. Seeing the transaction made this whole scheme seem suddenly very real. That was money Leroy had worked for—whether by selling legal substances for killing off vermin and pests, or less legal drugs and poisons distributed into the underground markets. Either way, it was his toil and hardship, and she felt a twinge of responsibility to see how very little all that money had gotten them.