My gaze catches on the doorjamb, and I see a strip of white over the hole, which has prevented the latch from sliding into place and locking. It’s some kind of tape, which he obviously pressed into place during his struggle with the soldiers. Did he grab it on the way out of his lab when the soldiers came for him? How did he know he would need it?
Wexler 42 steps into the hallway and glances in both directions, his frame tense. He’s ready to run.
Instead he crosses the hall toward me. A light flashes green over my door and he pulls it open; he’s unlocked my cell with the bar code on his wrist. Scientists evidently have very high security clearances.
Wexler and I stare at each other, this time with no glass between us. A small smile haunts his mouth as he studies my face.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I try to speak. “Who—” I inhale and try again. “Who are you?” I whisper.
“I’m the man who got you into this.”
“What? I don’t understand.” Trigger 17 got me into this. I got myself into this.
The scientist’s gaze drops to the embroidery on the front of my jacket. “Dahlia.” He says my name as if he’s tasting it. Then he looks right into my eyes and whispers one more word. “Run.”
Wexler 42 turns, and his footsteps whisper down the hall, opposite the direction the soldiers went in.
My stomach flip-flops. I catch the door before it can close and stick my head into the hall in time to see him disappear behind a door labeled with an image of a staircase.
Wexler 42 is gone, and my cell is unlocked.
My legs itch to move, but what good would running do? I have nowhere to go. But if I’m here when they find whatever genetic flaw is swimming around in my DNA, I will be euthanized along with my identicals for the good of the city.
Before I can decide what to do, loud footsteps echo toward me, accompanied by voices.
Panicked, I reach into my pocket and am relieved to find the roll of baton tape still there. I tear off a piece and use it like Wexler did to keep my door from latching as I ease it silently, carefully closed.
The steps and voices come closer. Another soldier appears in the hallway with a man in a suit and tie. The name tag pinned over his suit jacket pocket reads FORD 45, MANAGEMENT BUREAU CHIEF.
He is in charge of the entire Management Bureau. Which means he answers only to the Administrator.
When Ford sees that the room across from mine is empty, his face turns an alarming shade of red. “Send out an alert ping for Wexler 42 to all patrol units,” the manager barks. “Include his genome code and a photograph, but withhold all other specifics. And strip his clearance,” he orders.
The soldier pulls a small tablet from his pocket and begins typing on it, and I understand that the scientist’s bar code won’t unlock any more doors for either of us.
“And get Wexler’s supervisor in here to explain what we’re dealing with,” Ford 45 adds. “All that ‘helix’ and ‘allele’ talk from the genetics lab sounds like nonsense to me.”
Genetics lab? Wexler is a geneticist? Why would Management detain a geneticist within minutes of my arrest?
Ford turns to study me through the window in my door, but based on the utter lack of emotion he may as well be looking at a piece of furniture. Then he marches down the hall again, with the soldier on his heels, still tapping and swiping on his tablet. Just before they move out of earshot, I hear Ford say, “If I don’t know exactly what’s wrong with her in ten minutes, you’ll be scrubbing toilets in the barracks for the rest of your life.”
My pulse races so fast the small room begins to spin around me. I sink onto my heels to keep from falling.
Wexler isn’t just a geneticist. He’s my geneticist. The scientist who designed my genome. Management took him into custody in case they find a flaw in my DNA, which he will be held accountable for.
Which five thousand of my identicals—including me—will be recalled for.
I’m the man who got you into this.
Suddenly his declaration makes a certain strange sense.
Why would Wexler run unless he already knows what the genetic exam will uncover? Why would he tell me to run unless he knows we’re both about to be recalled?
Something is wrong with me, and the only man who knows what that is has just fled for his life.
And given me the opportunity to run for mine.
Heart pounding, I push my cell door open and peek into the hall. When I’m sure it’s empty, I run for the stairs as quickly and quietly as I can.
The door to the stairwell closes behind me with a soft whoosh of air, and the sudden silence around me is unnerving. Wexler is long gone.
I take each stair carefully and slowly to keep from tripping or making any noise, but by the time I’ve gone down three floors my footsteps have become the cadence of my fear, racing like my heartbeat. What’s wrong with my genome? What will happen if (when) I am caught? What will euthanasia feel like? Will my identicals get any warning, or will someone just round them all up?
My hand clenches around the stair rail with that thought. Other than the carpentry students who saw me marched out of the shed with Trigger, none of my identicals have any idea what I’ve done.
None of them have ever acted on whatever flaw we share. They don’t even know about it. Their ability to efficiently serve the city of Lakeview has not been compromised. So why should they have to pay for my mistake?
I can’t run to save my own life and leave them behind to be recalled. But turning myself in won’t save my sisters.
Tears blur my vision and I trip over my own foot. I fly forward, grasping for the railing, and my hand catches it at the last second, saving me from a tumble toward the next landing. For a moment, I am paralyzed here in the stairwell, my heart racing even faster than my thoughts, yet I come to that same inevitable conclusion over and over again.
I can’t save them. I can’t even warn them. Whether or not I escape, they will submit to the recall without ever understanding why they’ve been sentenced to death.
Poppy will die without ever knowing how badly I betrayed her. How badly I betrayed them all.
My sob echoes through the stairwell. Startled by the sound of my own grief, I slap one hand over my mouth, but I can’t hold back the tears. Violet will never take the relay baton from me again, nor smack me with it when she anchors our team victory. Sorrel will never again refuse to trade her tomatoes for my beets by telling me to respect the wisdom of our nutritionists. And Poppy…
My eyes fill with tears, blurring the stairs beneath me.
Poppy will never again whisper to me in the dark from her top bunk, fantasizing about the huge gardens we’ll oversee after we graduate. Or the two-person bedrooms and lounges rumored to exist in the adult residence halls. Or the grafted plants we’ll one day revolutionize hydroponic gardening with.
Every friend I’ve ever had looks just like me, but we are each different people, and I will miss every one of them in a different way. To a different degree. For a different reason.
I will mourn them as individuals, while the city euthanizes them as one.