O’Malley steps to the middle pedestal. Sparkles flare up above it, just like they did in the Crystal Ball, but instead of Brewer’s red-eyed face, I see the words GAMBIT PRIV, and below them, small images: O’Malley’s face, and Aramovsky’s, and…mine?
I’ve seen myself only once, a brief reflection in the shuttle’s polished hull. That reflection showed dirt and blood, dust and damage, all the bruises I suffered in our fight to escape. Messy hair, split lip, black eye, scratches from my fight in the woods and being dragged through the thicket.
The tiny face above the pedestal, though, has no marks. No cuts, no blood. It’s me, but older. The last of the girl I am is gone—what I see is all woman, striking and confident.
O’Malley’s and Aramovsky’s images look older, too. So…manly. The image makes O’Malley look even more handsome than he already is.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Is that us?”
“Maybe it’s how the Grownups thought we would look in a few years. Or how our progenitors looked when they first designed us, set us to growing in the coffins?”
It’s so strange to look at an older version of myself. Glossy black hair hangs in luxurious curls rather than being pulled back into my severe braid. Smooth light-brown skin. Lips a dark shade of red. Eyelids painted pink.
But that face…it’s not real. It is the face of a doll, dressed up the way its owner wanted.
“You’re beautiful,” O’Malley says.
The word makes my breath catch. I glance at him—he’s not looking at me, he’s looking at the image. That isn’t me, it’s Matilda, how she would look if she wiped me from existence.
“A picture of me is beautiful, but the real thing isn’t?”
His eyes flick to me, widen.
“Well, no…that’s not what I’m saying.”
“That’s exactly what you said.”
He shakes his head. “You’re beautiful, too, Em. When those bruises heal, you’ll look amazing.”
But I don’t look amazing now. I don’t want to talk about it anymore, so I change the subject.
“Those words, gambit priv. What do they mean?”
“No idea. When I walked up to the pedestal, this is what appeared.”
He reaches out and touches the image of my face. Next to it appear two symbols in gold: circle-star, circle-cross. Two symbols in silver: the gear and the half-circle. And one symbol in white: the double-ring.
There are no plain circle symbols at all—no empties.
“I think gold means you can access any door with those symbols,” O’Malley says. “Silver might mean you can access some doors with that symbol.”
“And white means I can’t access those areas at all?”
He nods. “I think so.”
I touch the floating picture of O’Malley’s face. The symbols and colors are the same as mine, except for the gear, which for him is white. He can’t access anything with a double-ring or a gear.
Then I touch Aramovsky’s face: gold for the double-ring, white for everything else.
Why just our three faces? No image of Spingate or Gaston. The shuttle will fly for Gaston, but has areas he can’t access? Why? When Grownup Aramovsky died, he was with Matilda. Did they have some connection? And what about Grownup O’Malley—is that monster still alive, too?
The Grownups kept things from each other. They fought, they murdered, they kept themselves divided. I don’t want to be anything like them.
“Can we change this, so everyone has access to everything?”
“I tried,” O’Malley says. “It won’t let me do much of anything.”
He faces the pedestals, licks his lips. He’s acting so strange. What has him so anxious?
“Shuttle, where are we?” he asks.
A soft voice purrs from the walls.
“Omeyocan.”
Black spots form above all three pedestals. The spots fuzz with sparkles of every possible color, then solidify. I’m looking at a planet: blue, green and brown. It spins slowly. It is exactly what I saw up on the Xolotl.
“Shuttle,” he says, “I need to change access privileges.”
“Chancellor, O’Malley, Kevin Patrick, speak the access code to continue.”
His first name is Kevin? I like that name. But I like O’Malley more.
“I think some info is available to anyone,” O’Malley says. “But most of the questions I ask, it wants a code that I don’t know.”
The shuttle obviously recognizes him. It must think he is the Grownup O’Malley, after an overwrite. Maybe it will make the same mistake with me. On the Xolotl, Matilda seemed to be in charge.
I face the pedestals.
“Shuttle, do you know who I am?”
“Savage, Matilda Jean, Empress.”
Empress?
O’Malley laughs. He rolls his eyes, smiling. “Your Highness. Should I bow?”
I punch his shoulder.
“Shuttle,” I say, “what do our symbols mean?”
“Speak the access code to continue.”
“If I’m the empress, I don’t need a code. What do our symbols mean? What is this city?”
“Gambit-level information requires verbal confirmation of access code, Empress. Speak the access code to continue.”
“Told you,” O’Malley says.
“What else is on this deck?”