A hulking, all-black figure walks past the camera and advances toward him. The guy’s expression turns terrified—he’s realized that he’s been trapped by a Stalker. The man screams, then the figure moves impossibly fast—a dark blur—and grabs him by the throat. The Nice’s eyes go wide, then wider still, so they’re bulging from their sockets.
I need to watch this, even though I know how it’s going to end. It’s awful, and it’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life, but I can’t look away. And that’s not just because Craike is here and I can’t disobey him. I need to watch so that I know, precisely, what will happen to me if I’m not convincing enough as a Nice. This is why, I think. This is why I’ve worked so hard, to make sure that what is happening to this Nice will never happen to me.
I blink and keep watching.
The Stalker’s hand grips tighter. The skin of the man’s neck flows out and covers the hand. The Nice coughs and gags, choking. His body is still fighting for life, even though he must know he’s done for. Blood spurts as the fingers sink right through the skin. The Nice’s eyes roll back into his skull. The monster’s fingers and thumb touch, crushing the spine. And that’s it: the Nice’s body crumples and lands on the ground in front of the sleek black feet. His head remains in place, gushing blood, supported only by the cold metal hand.
“Turn around, Caden.”
I spin and stare right into a muscular black chest. It’s smooth and nearly featureless, missing both nipples and a belly button, like a child’s doll. Little rivers of pulsing white light ripple through the skin, shimmering almost like starlight. My blood chills, and I tilt my head up. A still, black metal head is glaring at me. I gaze into the flat panes where the eyes should be and it seems that something is looking at me.
“Now,” says Craike.
The Stalker’s hand shoots out and grabs me by the neck. The fingers are freezing cold. My face starts to burn. I kick my feet and dig my fingernails into the smooth metal, but its grip holds firm.
Craike grins. His bottom teeth are yellow and crowded, all the little teeth at odd angles mashed up against one another. “This is a Stalker. It’s the most advanced robot ever created, the perfect killing machine. If you ever stray from the script or try to run, we will send him after you. And he will rip you apart.”
The flat black panes glare at me.
“Enough,” says Craike.
The Stalker releases me and takes a step backward. Little pulses of light run from the tips of its fingers all the way to the middle of its chest, where a cluster of light glows.
“We are not releasing you. We are sending you out for a purpose, and you will always be ours. Even if you win the contest you’ll work for us, giving us all the information about your Chosen that we require. Is that very clear?”
How could he be clearer? He might as well have told me the rest of my life will be awful no matter what. Death by incineration is a thing of nightmares, but life for a successful Love Interest isn’t exactly a happily ever after. After winning, the Love Interest needs to be a perfect partner to prevent his Chosen from ever moving on.
Also, he must betray a person who loves him every single day. I force the thought down, trying to keep it from showing in my eyes.
“Crystal.”
“All right. Now, sit. There is one last thing we must discuss now that I know I can trust you.”
Rubbing my burning neck, I sit down. The hologram fades away.
Craike sits too. “I want you to tell me what you think the LIC trains Love Interests for. I’m sure a smart boy like you has some theories. Answer truthfully or you’ll be punished.”
My first instinct is to ignore his threat and lie anyway, to make him think I haven’t thought about this as much as I have. But he’s already shown that he has an excellent bullshit detector, so I have to tell the truth.
“I think this is all about surveillance,” I say. “Only superimportant people are assigned Love Interests, right? I think you want our Chosen to fall for one of us so that she’ll tell us all her secrets. And then we’ll tell those secrets to you.”
He smiles, but his eyes remain cold. “You know more than most. Do you have any questions about our motives? Most do, and we have nothing to hide here. An informed Love Interest is an effective Love Interest.”
I’m shocked, but I don’t let it show. I’ve spent a huge portion of my life trying to figure out what the LIC is training me for. I’ve known for a long time that they’re teaching me to be some sort of spy—that’s obvious from some of the classes they make us take—but I’ve never known why. I sort of figured I’d always be kept in the dark about most of the ins and outs of their operations. That’s just the way they are.
“The only thing I don’t understand,” I say, “is why the LIC values secrets so highly. I mean, you’ve gone to all this effort”—I gesture to the Stalker—“to create this place and train Love Interests, just to spy?”
Craike places his hands on the table. “Let me put it this way: how much do you think people are willing to pay for a piece of information that could end a presidency or destroy a rival company?”
“A lot?”
“A lot is correct. Love Interests acquire information for us, and then we sell that knowledge for more money than most people earn their entire lives. You were incorrect, though, in assuming we deal in secrets, because we don’t. We didn’t train you to tell us gossip.” He spits the word out like it’s dirty. “We deal in information. The right piece of information can be truly devastating if it’s precisely aimed. You’ll be surprised by how willing people are to hand over information that could ruin them to the people they love. The LIC has been profiting from people’s affection for centuries.”
“Centuries?” I ask. I’d guessed because the LIC is so high-tech that it was a fairly new organization.
He nods. “Yes, the LIC has existed for hundreds of years, and we have Compounds in eleven countries. Almost everyone you think of as important or influential had, or has, a Love Interest beside them, hiding in plain sight.”
He touches the screen. The hologram appears again. He swipes, and a black-and-white photograph appears. It’s of an old president whose name I can’t remember. He’s standing on the steps of the White House, waving at a group of people. Beside him is his wife. She’s waving at the crowd with one hand. I’m sure most people wouldn’t notice anything abnormal about her, but now that I know what she is, there’s something about her frozen smile that’s horrific. She isn’t there to support the man she loves on a monumental day in his life.
She’s a spy.