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  “My mother?”

  “Oh yes,” he says, “we had quite the engaging conversation.”

  The words spark fire under my skin, and I itch to move. I ache for the relief I’d only just felt. It doesn’t come. “I’ve done something terrible.” My mother’s words come back to me, popping in my ears like static. This must be what she meant, her deal with the president, and the gnawing in my gut tells me all I need to know. It doesn’t matter why or even how. I can imagine all the ways she may have felt pressured to cave. I can imagine enough horrors to fill a thousand blank spaces, but none of it matters. None of it digs beneath the surface. None of it soothes. The naked truth is as simple as this: our mother sold us out, and just as I gave my life for Tempest, she gave ours for Beck.

  And that dinner? That ridiculous, wasted feast? I thought it was a show of affection. An apology, or maybe, in some way, forgiveness. Tempest and I had been foolish for so long after all, but it wasn’t any of those things. It was guilt.

  I try not to let my mind turn her into a monster, but I can’t help it. Rage burns beneath the surface, and I want to scream. My hands ball into straining fists, the handle of the Viper digging in my skin. I want to hate her. I want to blame her for everything, for us being blindsided by the Sanctioning Squad, for Tempest’s pain, for the horrors I had to commit to get us out of there alive, for letting us run off to the cave all those years without telling us what danger we could be in. I want to hate her with every fiber of my being, but a part of me, too, can’t help feeling grateful. She made a request I never thought to make, a request I would never have even dreamed possible. No one evades the Draft forever, but Beck will. He can, thanks to her. In the worst way possible, she’s managed to keep my brother safe.

  The president’s gaze sits like ice on my skin. He wants a reaction, I know, and the amused smile on his face makes me sick to my stomach. He wants outrage. He wants hurt. He wants to see me buckle. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I grit my teeth and force a nod. Acceptance, clear and simple. The effect is immediate—a flicker of surprise, then annoyance, a spark of anger that doesn’t quite flourish into flame. He’s controlled, always.

  “Well,” I say, willing my voice not to crack, “it sounds like everything is in order then.” I need to get out of this room. The walls are closing in on me. The air is stale. My face feels hot. I need to escape. I need to see Tempest, see him alive, recovering. I need to breathe.

  The president clears his throat and steeples his fingers. “There is,” he says, “the issue of your loyalty.”

  “My loyalty?”

  “We have discussed my end of our little bargain, Prudence,” he says, “but we have yet to discuss yours.”

  I balk, then the words snap out of me before I can stop them. “I’m here. That should be enough to prove my loyalty.”

  His amused smile returns, a bit brighter than before. An old, chilling laugh rasps free and makes my skin crawl. “Your grit is to be admired, Prudence,” he says, “but there is a point.”

  I rock from foot to foot, uncomfortable in this place, in his presence, in my own skin. “A point?”

  “Yes,” he says, and then his voice drops. His smile remains stuck in place, but his tone grows deeper, colder. Threatening. “A point at which you must understand who, here, has the authority. You are valuable, Prudence, but you have come here with the misguided belief that you have some measure of control over our proceedings, and perhaps even, over me.”

  My blood goes cold. A shiver rips down my back.

  “I want to be clear,” he continues. “The control here is mine.”

  Any response I could possibly give lodges itself just behind the fear now bobbing at the back of my throat. My mouth waters, and for a moment, I think I’m going to be sick. All I can do is nod, tremble, try not to wither under his stare.

  “Now,” he says, “you have agreed to vacate your home, sever ties with your family, and take permanent residence here, where you will submit to regular testing by our team of highly esteemed doctors and scientists. You understand these tests, whatever they entail, are not optional.”

  It isn’t a question, but I nod anyway, the sickness still welling on my tongue.

  “You will complete military training, including simulations based on your…special skills, and you will operate as part of our specialized military force, carrying out missions on my command. You are allowed to retain possession of the property you stole.” He glances to the Viper, and I want to scream that I didn’t steal anything. The Viper is my birthright. “However, any attempt to harm myself or one of my staff or violate our agreed-upon terms in any way will result in the immediate forfeiture of your brother’s pardon as well as your own. Does any of this sound unfamiliar to you, Prudence?”

  I can’t bring myself to say the words aloud, to consent to never seeing my family again, so I shake my head and let that be the end of it. It’s the best I can do. He nods and waves his hand. Instantly, Warren returns to my side. She motions for me to follow her from the room, and I realize that this is it. I’m being dismissed without another word. Just give up your family and go. I hesitate, resist.

  “I want to see my brother,” I say. My voice cracks the slightest bit. My eyes sting.

  “Now, Prudence—”

  “How can I know you’ve upheld your end of the bargain if you don’t let me see him?” I know I’m pressing my luck, but I don’t care. I can’t go home. I can’t hug or hold Beck again. I won’t have another day with Tempest, the person who has always been there. My whole life, he’s been there. I need this. I need to see him. I have to know he’s okay before I can truly say goodbye. “I’ll stand by my word. I’ll stay here, do whatever you want me to, but I need to see him one last time. I need to know he’s okay.”

  The President’s lips tighten into a thin line. He releases a long, slow breath, and I hold mine, unsure of what to expect. Then, he tilts his head and says, “Very well.”

  The sigh of relief that shoots up my throat barely breaks free before the president is flicking his wrist again. Lieutenant Warren’s hand lands on my arm, and I jump. I’d forgotten how close she was. She motions for me to follow her again, and this time, I do.

  We are nearly out of the room when the president’s voice cuts through the silence once more. “Oh, and Prudence?” I turn back and find him looking at me behind his steepled fingers again, eyes like blue fire in the muted light. He smiles. “Happy birthday.”

  I’ve never felt more breathless in my life.

  3

  The golden elevator lurches like before as it carries us back up, floor by floor in silence. Lieutenant Warren stands like a brick wall beside me, arms locked behind her back and eyes set straight ahead as if nothing exists beyond the few feet in front of her face. The silence is so thick, it feels alive. I can’t shake the cold curl of the president’s voice in my head. The way he said those last words, like the mark of a completed transaction. I’m his newest toy.

  The number thirteen lights up as the elevator glides to a smooth stop, and Warren marches out without a word. She leads us down another long corridor, though it looks nothing like the one we’d only just left on the third floor. It’s sleeker, more modern, and brightly lit. The dark gray carpet springs beneath my feet with every step. Several steel doors line the corridor, some marked with signs I don’t understand and others, not marked at all. I make a mental note to do some investigating later and hope I might eventually gain some measure of freedom to do so. I imagine I won’t be given any opportunities to be on my own for a while, if ever. The thought makes my eyes water.

  It’s amazing how little moments can pull reality away from you. You get caught up in the action, in each exchange, and you forget the horror, the sorrow, the fear. You forget, even if for only a second at a time, but then it comes back to you. It comes back to you, swift and jarring, like waking from a nightmare only to realize you’re still in it, and you can’t get out. You can never get out.

&n
bsp; Tiny red dots blink near the ceiling, catching my eye. There’s one every few feet. Cameras. Of course. The president must have every inch of the place wired for surveillance, and this? This is just what can be seen, a visible reminder to each of his subjects. You’re being watched. Who knows how many different ways he can monitor us without our knowledge? There goes my hope of investigating. I’m not sure why I ever entertained the idea at all.

  Warren stops so suddenly I almost smack into her back. I catch myself on the wall and freeze. “What is it?” I ask, and she turns toward me, stiff as ever. At this point, I’m half-convinced she’s a robot. She speaks for the first time since I arrived, and her voice is surprising. It’s lighter than I had expected, softer, more human. Maybe she’s not a robot after all.

  “Here is where you will be staying,” she says, tilting her head toward the door on her right. It’s marked with a small sign. Private.

  “Oh.”

  She presses her thumb to a small electronic pad above the door handle. It flashes green, and the heavy door clicks open. My jaw drops. I’d been expecting something small, suited for a prisoner, but the space is massive. A plush couch sits in its center atop a maroon rug. A long table rests in front of it. Beside a door to the left is a large bookcase loaded with more volumes that I’ve ever seen in my life, and on another wall, floor-to-ceiling windows, the Dome’s glittering shield shining through from a distance. I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in pictures.

  “Your living quarters have been stocked to accommodate any needs you might have,” Warren says. “Sleeping quarters are through the door to your left, and within those quarters, you will find your private restroom. The shower is voice-activated, and any additional toiletries you may need can be accessed through your VAVC.”

  I frown, trying to process. My head feels like it’s spinning. “Through my what?”

  “Do you not have VAVCs in the Valley Sector?”

  A snort escapes before I can stop it. “We don’t have anything in the ‘Valley Sector’.”

  “Right,” she says, and I can almost swear one corner of her mouth turns up, almost. It’s hard to tell with her stony demeanor.

  “Do you have them in your sector?” I ask. “What sector are you from?”

  She ignores the question and points toward a machine on her right, so large it takes up half a wall. “This is a Voice-Activated Virtual Catalog.”

  “Sounds expensive,” I say, uncomfortable. The more I look around, the more my skin crawls. What if I break something? What if I spill something? I’m afraid to sit down at this point.

  “It will provide you with any item you may need from your daily meals to toiletries, among others. One day a week, you w—”

  “Wait.”

  She blinks and stops. “Yes?”

  “This machine can provide food?”

  “Among other necessities, yes,” Warren says, and it’s like the words just smack into my face and bounce back. They don’t sink in, don’t stick.

  “But how?”

  “It communicates your request with the kitchens and transports the prepared items here.”

  It seems impossible to process, food upon request. It’s that simple and that astounding. All my life, my family has had to struggle for what we’ve had, every bite, every scrap of clothes on our backs. To realize that the people here, the people in the cities, have had it this easy makes me sick to my stomach. Rage burns in my gut again, fresh, hot, and new. In the Gutter, there are no chances. We can’t work our way up. We can’t prosper, and these people? They don’t have to work at all, not the way we do. They ask, and they receive. Literally. I want to scream.

  My hands tighten into fists, the handle of the Viper digging into my palm. “That’s rich,” I bite out. Tears blur my vision, and I have to force slow, deep breaths through my nose.

  Warren clears her throat and avoids my eyes. “One day a week, you are required to attend the dining hall on the fourth floor where you will dine with your assigned squad. All other meals may be taken here or in the dining hall. The choice is yours.”

  The words begin to blend together as I stare out the massive windows, telling myself over and over to calm down. Listen. There’s nothing you can do, Dagger. You can’t change the way the world works.

  “Each month, you will receive a schedule of your events, activities, tests, and training sessions via your digital projection monitor, the control pad for which is built into the wall opposite us,” Warren continues, pointing toward a wall covered by a large blank screen. “As a security measure, the control pad and monitor have been programmed specifically for you and require a fingerprint scan for use, just as your main entrance has been. Once I leave, your fingerprint will be the only one capable of granting access to this room. Your living quarters are entirely private. There are no cameras, audio chips, or motion detection devices present for monitoring. In his mercy, the president feels that as long as you are cooperative and loyal to your commitment, you deserve as much privacy as you desire.”

  In his mercy. Bile burns at the back of my throat. The president’s “mercy” only extends to those who can offer him something valuable in return, and at what cost? Family. Home. Privacy is something precious, something I’ve never much been accustomed to, but here? Here, it feels more isolating than anything, and who’s to say it’s even real? There could be cameras embedded in every inch of these walls, and I’d never know it.

  “The president feels it necessary to inform you,” Warren says, and I turn toward her, “that it would be wise to monitor your attitude while you reside here.” My stomach drops, and my eyes shoot toward the small earpiece clipped around Warren’s right ear. Realization strikes, and a shiver shakes down my spine. He can hear us. Right now. I scan down Warren’s uniform, trying to spot the mic, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve said what I’ve said, and I can’t take it back.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. My voice shakes. “Is that all?”

  “I will return at 0700 to escort you to the infirmary,” Warren says. “That is all, ma’am.” Without another word, she turns on her heel and leaves, the heavy door closing behind her with an echoing thud.

  I stand in the same spot, unmoving, for longer than I care to count, staring around the room. I don’t know what to do, how to even begin. How do you start a new life on command? How do you let go of what you had, who you were, and become someone new? I’m a mess. I look down and take in the sight of my brother’s blood on me, his blood, the Captain’s blood. It’s caked into the fabric of my shirt, and I feel sick all over. I want it off, every last speck.

  I peel off my boots and hold them to my chest, careful not to stain the carpet any more than I already have. The carpet is soft beneath my socked feet as I pad across and through the door to my sleeping quarters. The room is just as big and beautiful as the previous, stretching around with curved, crystal-colored walls and a vaulted ceiling. The bed is tucked against the far wall and is larger than any I’ve ever seen. I imagine myself, Beck, and Mom all tucked in there together. The thought hurts. It burns, and I wonder if it will ever stop feeling this way. I wonder if, after some time, I will stop thinking of home, stop missing it, stop suffering.

  The bathroom is white and blinding. The marble floor matches the countertop, both so pristine that they hurt to look at. I didn’t know a bathroom could be so beautiful, but this one is. It’s breathtaking. My eyes lock on the shower. I’ve never taken one before. We’ve only ever had a tub, one that runs cold water because the pipes so often freeze in the Gutter. I’d always have to heat water on the fire and pour it in for Beck. It was the only way he would agree to be bathed. I remember my dad telling me about showers, though, that the water streams down on you like a hot rain. He had a way of making everything, especially ordinary things, sound so enticing. I can almost feel that hot water running over me now, washing away the horrible events of the night.

  I don’t want to wait, so I strip off my filthy clothes, set the Viper on
the countertop, and step into the shower. The door rattles as it closes behind me, and I’m stuck. I don’t see a handle or a knob, nothing to turn the thing on. There are only long, thin silver spouts protruding from the wall just below the showerhead. None of them turn. They don’t move at all and neither does the showerhead. How do I turn this damned thing on?

  Then I remember what Lieutenant Warren told me. The shower is voice-activated. “Um,” I say, wrapping my arms around my naked body, “I would like to take a shower, please.” Nothing happens. I’ve never been more grateful for privacy in my life. My humiliation is all my own. “Hello? A shower please?”

  Maybe it has to be a command. “On!” Nothing. “Go!” Still nothing. I give up.

  I glance around for a knob again, and I see it: a rectangular panel with a small solid-white button in its center, positioned a foot beneath the showerhead. It’s so white it blends in with the wall, making it difficult to see if you don’t already know it’s there. I press the button and wait for the water to start, but it doesn’t.

  “Damn it!” I wrap my arms tighter around myself, the cool air of the room causing goosebumps to rise along the lengths of my arms. This is getting ridiculous. But then, the rectangular pad opens like a door and a small stick slides from inside it, the end of which looks like a microphone. Oh.

  I lean toward the microphone and try again. “I’d like to take a shower, please.”

  The same voice I’d heard in the elevator and echoing from Warren’s security wand spills into the room. “Please select temperature and product.” A second later, two panels on the wall to my right slide open from a seam I hadn’t realized was there, and a screen appears. Water temperatures, soap selections, shaving creams, sponges, and specialty products for sensitive skin, dry scalp, rashes, sore muscles, and more all appear on the screen. I didn’t even know some of these products existed.

  I smack my finger against a few random options and a steaming hot rain shoots from the showerhead. I yelp and jump out of the spray, almost falling in the process, and as I catch myself on the wall, a loud laugh bursts from my lips. It feels foreign on my tongue but good, so good. I stick out a hand and let my skin adjust to the heat then shift fully under the spray. A sigh slips free. One by one, the thin silver spouts squirt different types of soaps into my hands so that I can massage them into my hair and skin. Each one smells better than the last.