“Defense has its best digital forensics team on it, and so far they haven’t found any sign that the records were deleted.” Ford 45’s seat creaks as he shifts uncomfortably. “They can’t find any sign that the records ever existed in the first place.”
“That’s not possible. Protocol demands a record of every gene in the sequence.”
“Yes, ma’am. The digital team couldn’t find the city’s original commission for the year-sixteen trade labor class. I’m headed to the mansion to search for it in backup storage. Then I’ll—”
“You better be here in five minutes. And, Ford 45?”
“Yes, Administrator?”
“If you don’t find both the geneticist and the anomaly today, I will promote someone else to Bureau Chief and have you recalled.” Another chime signals the end of the communication.
Stunned, I can only stare at Trigger, trying to decide based on his equally shocked expression whether he understood more of that than I did.
Ford groans. Then I hear a loud crack and a gasp of pain. I peek between the seats to see that the screen has been shattered and the knuckles of Ford 45’s right hand are dripping blood.
Obviously he doesn’t want to be recalled either.
Seconds later the car rolls to a smooth stop. I frown and twist quietly to look through the window over my head. We only left the training ward a few minutes ago. How can we already have arrived at the Administrator’s mansion? Is the city so small that I could have walked across it if I’d had permission?
Between the seats, I see Ford slide his tablet back into his suit jacket pocket with his clean left hand. He opens the door and steps out of the car, holding his bleeding right hand close to his chest.
Through the window over my head, I watch him walk away from the vehicle without even a glance back, but I can’t see where he’s going without revealing myself.
Trigger is right. Ford’s carelessness comes from a kind of arrogance I’ve never even considered. He assumes that everyone else lacks the intelligence or the audacity to breach his personal space and property, because he’s in a position of authority and no longer spends his time surrounded by his few identicals. And for the most part he’s right. It would never have occurred to me to hitch a ride in the rear of his personal vehicle. To make my escape by sticking close to the very man trying to catch me.
Trigger puts one hand on my arm and I turn to see him making a shushing gesture with one finger over his lips. I nod and he sits taller, slowly, until he can peer through the glass over my head to make sure no one’s around to see us get out of the car. He’s counting on the tinted windows—and a little bit of luck—to shield him from sight, and I’m happy to let him take that risk for both of us, even though if he’s seen, we’re both caught.
“There are two men waiting by the door,” he whispers. “They can’t see into the car, if you want to look.”
I don’t want to look, but if I’m going to make it out of the city—if I’m going to survive in the wild—I have to start taking more risks. So I turn in the narrow space until I can rise on my knees and look through the window.
We’re behind a building I’ve never seen before. It isn’t a tower like the Workforce Academy or the dormitory. It isn’t a squat building like the Defense Academy or a shiny building like Management headquarters. This building is short—only three stories high—with quaint windows and great peaks of roof covered in vintage tar shingles.
It’s the roof that clues me in. This isn’t a public building. It’s a private residence. A swollen version of the individual homes we learned about during our history unit, from back when people were born rather than grown and lived in family units consisting of genetic siblings and the parents who conceived them.
“This is a house,” I whisper, and the words sound as confused as I feel.
“The only one in the city,” Trigger confirms. “It’s the Administrator’s mansion.”
“Why does the Administrator need a giant house?” I share—shared—a room and clothing with three other people. A classroom and supplies with more than a dozen. A cafeteria with hundreds. A face with thousands.
“It’s not just a house. She works out of the mansion, running the city, meeting with the bureau chiefs and with representatives of other cities and doing whatever else an Administrator does.”
“How many rooms does she need for that?” My gaze tracks up the rear of the mansion, over brick and stone and what appear to be painted slats of wood. There are three chimneys and one large open area where three black private vehicles are parked. “Why does one woman need three cars?”
“I think most of that is less a need than a privilege.” But I can tell from the distracted quality of Trigger’s voice that he’s no longer interested in the Administrator’s mansion. “They’re going in.”
I follow his gaze to see Ford 45 enter the house through a rear door. A man in black pants and a black shirt steps in after him, while another dressed just like the first holds the door open, then lets it close as he follows them inside.
“Who are those men?” I whisper as Trigger rises onto his knees to look more boldly through all the car windows.
“Private security. They were recruited from Special Forces to protect high-ranking officials like the bureau chiefs and the Administrator.”
“Protect them from what?”
Trigger blinks. His brow furrows, as if that question has never occurred to him before. “I don’t know. Threats from outside the city, I guess.”
“What kind of threats?”
Trigger settles into the seat and frowns down at me. “For a girl who never asked a question in her life before a couple of months ago, you sure do have a lot of them now.” He crawls between the two middle seats in front of us and reaches for the door. “We need to go while no one’s watching.”
I crawl after him and stare at the windows sparsely distributed across the back of the Administrator’s mansion. “If anyone looks out, we’re caught.”
“Yes. So move fast.” Trigger brushes past me and steps out of the car. I follow him out onto a slab of concrete into which intricate, whirling designs have been pressed. He closes the car door softly, then reaches for my hand again, and suddenly we are running.
His boots make no sound on the concrete, but my athletic shoes are not as quiet, and I’m so busy trying to imitate his silence that at first I don’t realize we’re running toward the mansion rather than away from it.
“Wait!” I pull him to a stop halfway across the Administrator’s back patio. This is incredibly dangerous. We could be seen at any second. But going into the mansion seems so crazy that for a second I wonder if his real goal is—“Trigger?” Something in my voice makes him turn, and he seems to understand my fear with one glance at my face.
“I’m not turning you in, Dahlia. If that was what I wanted, I would have just let the Commander catch you in the dorm.”