Immunity Index Read online

  A car pulled into the driveway. She turned and looked. A man wearing a visor-screen stepped out, someone she was pretty sure she’d seen on campus in Madison. Mamá’s messenger, finally? Finally? She hurried over, but Alan got there first and began talking to him, no doubt telling him visitors weren’t welcome.

  The man lifted up his visor and answered Alan. “… but I’m not here to see the mammoth,” he was saying when she reached earshot. He saw her and paused for a moment. “Hey, Irene! Good to see you again! And your mom says hi. I came up for a lab class at the Wausau campus, so I thought I’d stop by on my way back.”

  Definitely the messenger. Irene played along. “Thanks! It’s good to see you, too.” She wished she knew his name, but Alan seemed convinced and began walking away. “We had a problem with the pen and can’t have visitors. Sorry.”

  “I saw that. I guess I need to stay away. Too bad. That’s an impressive animal.” He took a few steps toward the road, and she followed. “Your mom does say hi. I’m Cal. She sent you some artwork.”

  “Yeah, she said she would.” Irene tried to sound natural. They’d need to make it look like a real visit between real friends.

  He looked around at the fields and the dilapidated farmhouse that Alan was entering. He coughed. “Sorry. Too much fresh air. Let’s take a little walk.”

  She glanced at Nimkii. He seemed content with the greens. They began to stroll down the road—not too far. Nimkii might decide to follow.

  “How many of you are there?” he demanded, suddenly no longer friendly.

  She tried to make sense of the question. How many? Oh. Clones. How did he find out? And why did he care?

  He frowned at her silence. “There’s another one of you on campus. A freshman from Chicago.”

  Another one. She stopped in the road, blindsided by a surprise she always knew might hit her. For all that Peng had told her mother she was unique, she knew he must have sold other zygotes, and “unique” had meant environment, not DNA. Peng could be slippery that way. Another one. She’d always dreamed about meeting a clone of herself, a sister of sorts, the only truly genetic family she would have.

  Faced with the real prospect, now she wanted to meet that other version of herself more than anything else. “What’s her name?”

  “No one told us you were a clone.” He stood looking down at her through his visor.

  “It doesn’t matter. And it’s not the sort of thing you say in public. Not these days, anyway.”

  “We can’t have dupes in this.”

  Dupes. “What do you mean? This is all about freedom. Equality.”

  “You’ll put us at risk.”

  “How? We’re as trustworthy as anyone. You know that.”

  He huffed. “You might draw attention to yourself. You already have with that video. How long before people figure this out on campus?”

  “How long before the mutiny?” It was a matter of days, she was sure.

  “That’s not the point. There’s too many of you.” He turned to go back to his car, lifting his visor to cough, probably that non-Sino cold that was going around. “You—and your mother—shouldn’t be involved.”

  She followed him, trying to hide her anger. Alan or Ruby might be watching, and they might ask questions. But he had no right … “Who is she?” He could at least tell her that.

  “I’ve got to get back to Madison. I’ll give you the artwork,” he said as if it were a chore. He rummaged around in his car and handed her some stiff papers. “Here.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name’s Avril.” He got in and left, leaving her to stare at the car as it drove down the road. She knew without looking at what she held that he hadn’t delivered Mamá’s message, whatever it was.

  She walked back to the pen. Nimkii had stopped eating and was watching her as if she were the only thing in the world. Behind a bale of hay to shield herself from prying eyes just in case something subversive had been included, she looked at what she had, two pieces of watercolor paper, art from Mamá, beautiful paintings of Nimkii. Nothing more.

  “Call Mamá,” she told her phone. Her mother didn’t answer, so Irene left a message. “Mamá, a guy named Cal came, and he gave me two paintings of Nimkii, and that was all. And he had some things to say. You should call me.”

  He was the one who shouldn’t be involved with the mutiny instead of leaving out her and Mamá.

  * * *

  Berenike maintained a neutral professional expression on her face appropriate for the rank of assistant manager, which her ID badge proclaimed, as a man rushed into the little franchise office. He looked angry. She slipped a finger under the counter onto the security alert button—just in case. The office in the corner of the building had a wide window facing the street as much to keep staff safe as to make it look inviting to customers.

  Only one more day of this crap. If we’re incredibly lucky.

  She’d been watching people walk down the street toward the pre-mutiny protest. She’d be going as soon as her shift was over, just a few more minutes, just a few blocks away. Afraid? Yes, but she’d gone to a clandestine training session months ago about protests and knew what to do if things went wrong.

  Protests all around the country at the same time would be the first step toward the mutiny, letting people know that there was resistance—a safe, effective resistance, people unafraid to show their faces. Tomorrow, those same people would go to work and refuse to obey all the illegal orders—and at the protest she’d get some passwords for AutoKar to override anything corporate tried to pull.

  The angry man came up to the counter and started shouting. “Those … people are using your cars. I saw them! You know what I mean.” He pointed to the south. “Right over there, at the protest.”

  So that was what he was angry about. He said protest as if it were vile. This was the kind of man who’d arrest her father for his jokes—and her father still hadn’t answered her, so maybe he actually had been arrested or worse. But regardless, she had to deal with this guy.

  “It’s illegal!” he said, looking her straight in the eyes, challenging her. “Your cars can’t be used for illegal purposes.”

  The corporation had a canned reply she was supposed to use, already displayed on the screen facing her—the software eavesdropped—so she recited it, not looking him in the eyes as a reciprocal challenge, trying to make it sound natural, the way she’d been trained.

  “We’re sorry you’re upset. Today’s event has all the necessary municipal permits and permissions, and we’re required by law to provide transportation to and from legal activities without discrimination. We pride ourselves in obeying all laws for the safety and comfort of our passengers.”

  Even to her own ears, she sounded like a cold machine, which might make him angrier. She added, with additional professional neutrality, “We’re sorry and understand your concern, but the city has allowed the event. We can’t do anything about that.”

  “Spineless corporate bureaucracy, that’s what you are.”

  She was tempted to say We’re sorry you feel that way but he’d probably see that as snide, and he’d be right. He was also right about the corporate bureaucracy being spineless. Inflexible and idiotic, too. She had the authority to offer him a small credit to his account to mollify him, but she decided not to, her own little vengeance against the kind of people she felt justified to fear.

  “We hope the event hasn’t caused you any inconveniences,” she said.

  His scowl delighted her. “You know what, just get me a car and I’ll go home. I wouldn’t have come downtown if I’d known about it. Those people think they deserve…”

  She stopped listening and touched a few buttons on her screen. An autocar was being recharged in the service bay, and it rolled out next to the entrance before he had finished. He was coughing. She almost wished he had the delta cold and not whatever minor crap was going around.

  She waved a hand toward the car. “Thank you for sharing your c
oncerns,” she said with a fake smile.

  “Yeah,” he said. He didn’t believe her. Well, he shouldn’t, since she was lying. The database had told her more about him than he might have wanted her to know. He could easily buy the kind of food that she couldn’t afford, had sufficiently high citizenship standing to be exempt from rationing, and he could even pay for a heli-taxi instead of a ground car. Tomorrow he might not be able to give orders the way he used to. She wished she could witness his face then.

  She watched him leave, wondering if she’d miss the chance to inflict those minor cruelties if the mutiny failed and if she lost her job. If she lost it—maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t. Momma had lied, so Swoboda, who was a lot like her, would lie in one way or another, and maybe he wouldn’t carry out his threat. But anyone else who saw the video could expose her.

  Even if the law changed, she might need to move. One roommate offered sympathy, but the other two might not. Maybe she could live with Papa, if he ever came home. Maybe he was just sleeping off another drug binge. Maybe, any minute, he’d call, or at least read her message.

  “Hey, Berenike!” Jalil walked in with one minute to spare, wearing his teal uniform tunic, ready to start.

  “Hey, Jalil!”

  “Watch out.” He gestured south toward the protest. He knew she’d be going.

  “I’ll be careful.”

  She sprinted into the tiny office bathroom to change into street clothes, shoved her uniform into her backpack, and was out the door while he was still logging into the system.

  The protest blocked the street in front of the gray granite federal courthouse, a couple hundred people, she guessed, and her heart fell: an enormous number considering the danger, but not nearly enough to start a nationwide mutiny. A man on the steps with a megaphone was speaking: “… and there’d be plenty of food for humans if they weren’t feeding pigs and chickens and cows to feed the rich.”

  Someone was going to deliver the passwords to her. Who? They’d find her. That was all she knew. The movement had way too much secrecy, not like she could do anything about it. The crowd jostled as something or someone passed through it.

  There was a bang like a gun. Close by. Then another. Gunfire? A third bang. And screams. People began to run, and behind them smoke rose and blew toward her. It stank.

  Don’t panic. Make way. That was what she’d been taught in the protest training. Berenike turned and moved with the crowd. Be like a school of fish. Don’t trample. Don’t fall.

  People were pushing too hard. She stumbled onto the person in front of her, both of them propped up by the press of the crowd, and tried to regain her footing.

  More smoke. It was red. Gas? People were screaming and coughing.

  “Stay calm,” an amplified man’s voice urged, the man who’d been speaking. “We’re clearing the crowd. You’ll be out soon. Stay calm.”

  The crush didn’t decrease, but it didn’t increase either. Sirens approached.

  “What’s happening?” someone up ahead screamed.

  “It’s not gunfire,” the speaker said. “Follow instructions.”

  “Come this way!” a high-pitched voice called from the right. “Walk calmly. This way. Walk calmly.”

  The push moved her to the right. Berenike took a long stride, then another. Walk—calmly. A body lay on the ground in front of her, and someone was attending to that person. She paused and inched farther to the right, leaning back to stop other people.

  Step by step, she moved around them, and suddenly there was space. Don’t run—but people were running. Don’t be trampled, be a school of fish, so she ran with them. It felt surreal, the clarity of the pavement beneath her feet, the moving bodies around her, the rising noise, shouts, sirens.…

  She reached a corner and paused in a doorway to let people run past. Think calmly. What had happened? Bombs? What would help? Were people hurt? If there were bombs, there might be more bombs.

  The crowd had thinned. She stepped out and looked up the street. Smoke was dissipating, red, white, and blue smoke. Patriotic antiprotesters. Crowd-control volunteers in orange vests were waving and gesturing. Could she help? Maybe the best thing to do was to get out of the way. She knew a couple of the volunteers. They were competent. Yes, get out of the way. It wasn’t cowardly—that’s what the training had assured her. Let the appropriate people do their jobs.

  But she wouldn’t get the passwords. The rally had failed. The first step toward mutiny had fallen off a cliff.

  Failure … All those people who had come knew the danger. She wasn’t going to abandon them, at a minimum. She ran back to the AutoKar office. It was crowded all the way out to the sidewalk with panicked customers, still coughing from the noxious smoke, hoping to get a ride faster by asking in person. She pulled out her ID badge and used it to work her way inside.

  “Hey, Jalil! I’m back to help.” He looked up and mouthed the word thanks.

  People wanted to get home, be safe, and the corporation had a lean fleet, but cars could be rerouted and rides doubled up if someone knew how to organize things. She knew how.

  She stepped behind the counter. “Please enter your destination in your phones. We can get you out of here faster if we know where you want to go. Tell everyone outside to do the same thing. We’ll get you home safe.”

  Fuck the Prez and fuck everything he did, and fuck the patriots who tried to kill people at protests. She could fight back in this little way, and she’d do it with breathtaking efficiency.

  A half hour later, everyone was on their way home but her. Jalil gave her a dubious glance, as if he’d witnessed a DNA-engineered superpower. Well, if it was true, maybe being a dupe wasn’t all bad.

  She was tired—but the protest hadn’t been a total failure. A woman had come to thank her for her help and had handed her a little folded plastic card that Berenike had slipped into her pocket without looking at it. Tomorrow was still the day, and giving up wasn’t an option. Giving up was a drug that beckoned with a moment of serenity and a lifetime of disaster: Momma’s choice, not hers. As she waited for the bus, she checked her messages for any sign of Papa.

  Nothing. But Swoboda had left a message:

  “Take your time thinking about it. Twenty-four hours,” he said. “Come live with me. I have plenty of room. If not, you and your clone will become famous.”

  In less than twenty-four hours, can I find a gun and shoot him?

  No, that was a foolish thought, and she’d be too busy tomorrow anyway, but her fists were clenched tight enough to throttle him from a distance. She’d rather sleep under a bridge than in his house.

  “Think about it,” he said. “The offer is open. For your clone, too.”

  She heard Momma’s voice in his intonation like a horrible distorted mirror—no, she heard the voice that had made Momma want to protect Berenike … and as if a switch had been flipped, she instantly forgave Momma for all the hurt she had ever caused. Instead, she shared every single moment of Momma’s rage against Swoboda. If only Momma were alive.…

  Momma would protect her, and Momma would protect her clone, too—all her clones—out of spite for Swoboda. By the time the bus came, she knew what she had to do: she had to make sure that the mutiny succeeded in every way she could, and starting now, she was going to act like Momma, and Momma was dangerous.

  * * *

  Avril saw Hetta in the lobby as she was leaving to go find lunch. She lifted the visor-screen she was wearing to keep anyone from taking a close look at her face. A lot of people might have seen that mammoth video.

  As soon as Hetta saw her, her expression turned sour. “I need to talk to you. So you aren’t from Milwaukee.”

  Milwaukee? “No, I’m from Chicago.”

  “I saw someone who looks like you in Milwaukee. I thought you were her. That’s why I had Cal talk to you.”

  Like me? “Just like me?”

  “Come outside and we’ll talk.”

  Avril followed her out behind Dejope Hall. In
the buzz of her thoughts, she realized she must have another sister besides Irene. Triplets! I’m one of three!

  Hetta looked around. No one was near. “The one I saw in Milwaukee looked just like you. And Cal said he talked to someone who looked just like you up in Wausau.”

  “That must have been Irene. Irene Ruiz. She rode the mammoth. She was a student here.” Hey, wait, I just outed Irene. Well, anyone can see the video.

  “How many of there are you?”

  “I don’t know. Three? I just found out I’m a…”

  “Yeah. And Cal said your father’s in the government.” Her tone accused her.

  “My father hates the Prez. He’d support the mutiny.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. His daughter’s a dupe, a second-class citizen. I can’t be here legally. What’s he going to do?”

  “We didn’t know that before.”

  “Well, you know that now.” And if the mutiny was what they said it was, they’d have to let her in.

  Hetta took a couple of breaths, still looking her in the face. “Do you have somewhere to be now?”

  “I was going to lunch.”

  “Then come with me. There’s going to be a protest.”

  “A—” Avril paused. Be discreet—no one needed to tell her that. Be calm. “A protest,” she whispered. Finally!

  She followed Hetta across campus and up State Street.

  “The city is going to protect this protest,” Hetta said. “Liberty for all, that’s what the mayor says. The city is for freedom. We think the mayor will mutiny. So don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid.” But Avril’s armpits were wet with anxiety. That dog. She wanted to hurry, but no, Hetta walked at a normal speed, as if they were looking for takeout food or enjoying the scenery.

  “In the mutiny,” Hetta said, “we have to keep a lot of secrets. Our secret weapon will be surprise. A lot of people want what we want.”

  Avril tried to act cool and calm. “Old-fashioned freedom, that’s what I heard.”

  “You heard right.”

  “I saw a protest once.” She tried to keep fear out of her voice. “There was a drone and it attacked.”