Clay (21 page)

The centrifuge hums.

It’s a third set of Paul’s blood samples. The results of the first analysis were clearly contaminated. She drew another sample from his arm later that day and that was consistent with the first. The third test…that will be the decisive one.

She hopes her work has just been sloppy.

The whirring of the machine tempts her to lay her head on the bench and close her eyes, just for a few minutes. She pulls the biomite tubes from the rack, instead, and begins to catalog them. Each of them is an experimental strain. Years ago, she had planned on replacing her and Nix’s biomites with a new strain because, eventually, M0ther would solve their current biomites.

Now, she just doesn’t care.

There was no need for new strains that communicated via quantum mechanics, utilizing entangled protons instead of the current frequency of technology. These nixes would put mankind out of M0ther’s reach for generations.

Several of her samples are missing volume. She hadn’t noticed until comparing them with Paul’s blood samples. Either her work had gotten sloppy—which she still held out hope for—or Nix had taken them.

Of course he did.

He seeded Jamie with one of the new strains, which, in theory, would allow him to read the pill. It’s likely he discovered the location of a fabricator, in which case he stole Paul’s car to find it. She had hoped the pill would be obsolete, that M0ther’s voracious pace would close them all down before that happened.

Somehow she feels responsible for nixes and the countless halfskins that have resulted despite having nothing to do with releasing them. Still, here she is with a dozen new strains that would revolutionize the industry. If these got out, M0ther would be irrelevant.

Don’t do anything stupid, Nix.

She lays her head down on the vibrating desktop. Hours later, she wakes in silence. The analysis is complete. Mechanically, she goes through the final steps. She gets something to eat while the spectral analysis is completed.

The results, however, do not set her stomach at ease. They are, as she expected, exactly the same as the first two. This depressed, sleep-deprived biometric engineer has replicated results three times…and still can’t believe it.

Paul’s biomites are identical to mine!

The frequency code revolves at the same rate as hers, separating into the same number of subroutines that match, nearly perfectly, her algorithm. That algorithm is exactly what keeps her and Nix out of M0ther’s vision, and yet here it is in another man’s blood.

For twenty years she had watched the nixed variations that M0ther was solving, and none of them were like hers. Cali had invented unique, one-of-a-kind nixes. No one in the world has them except Cali and Nix. No one.

No one, goddamnit. NO ONE.

So how can Paul have them? More importantly, why?

Quickly, she looks for another blood sample, the last one she drew from Paul’s arm. She can run one more test, because this can’t be right. The tube, though, fumbles through her fingers, rattles across the bench without breaking.

She restrains herself from clearing off the tabletop, pulling the shelves off the walls and smashing the lab. Her breath hisses between her teeth while she slams her fists on the bench, on the wall, on that goddamn fabricator hiding beneath the tarp.

She turns off the light and leaves the lab.

She needs space to escape the tension, space to free her mind.

On the front porch, she sits on the swing. A breeze gusts across the pasture. The horses are satisfied at the round bail. She doesn’t need to run another test. She can only assume that M0ther knows where she is and, for whatever reason, hasn’t shut her down. Is she taunting her?

Even if Cali could make it all go away, if she injected herself with one of the experimental strains and disappeared from M0ther’s radar, it doesn’t explain why Paul is in the shed. Even if she left him there and moved to another farm, built another tower…what would that get her?

More walls.

And it won’t explain why Paul is here.

Another call from Cali.

Nix props his leg on the opposite knee and ignores it. The pant leg hikes above his Mercanti Fiorentini shoe, exposing the black sock—clothing he’s never worn in his life. But in the bank, sunk into the leather chair, he knows Jamie was right.

He takes a deep, cleansing breath, lets it out slowly. The tension, however, remains, despite the lure of the chair’s comfort. It’d do him good to lay his head back, nap for a few minutes. If only he could leap into Dreamland, just for a moment, see ole Shep carry a stick and watch Raine pick low-hanging fruit from the orchard…

A message pings inside his head. He immediately dumps it. There’s nothing his sister can say to change his mind. Years ago, she refused to fabricate Raine. Now she’s destroyed Dreamland. Whatever she has to say can wait. When he’s finished, she can tell him with Raine sitting by his side.

Won’t that be a treat?

Nix bounces his fingers tips, surveying the grand lobby: the shiny floor and polished surfaces. The tellers speak in quiet tones, smile at the patient customers. To the right are the glass-walled offices, bankers working closely with important clients.

Jamie leafs through a
Business Today
magazine, chewing gum with her lips locked. Her stocking cap is back in the room. Now her hair falls over her ears. Perhaps it’s the color of the sweater that makes her eyes look greener.

Nix has transfigured into the old man again.

An hour later, a woman crosses the lobby, a gold nameplate on the lapel of her business suit. Her red lipstick glows.

“Mr. Griffin will see you now,” Jalen says.

They follow her to one of the glass rooms where a swollen man sits behind a mahogany desk. Nix expected to meet somewhere more private with someone less brutish. Jalen closes the door behind them. Mr. Griffin gestures to chairs. He folds his hands on the desk, the beefy fingers interlacing like knuckled hotdogs.

“How can I help you?” His pupils dilate.

Facial recognition has been activated. With Jamie, he’ll see the truth—a girl pronounced dead at the Seattle warehouse, now sitting in front of him. No hiding that. A computer hums somewhere beneath the desk.

“We asked for Mr. Connick,” Jamie says.

“He’s a busy man. I’m sure I can help you.”

Nix gently keeps her from standing. You don’t just walk in and ask for the fabricator. “It’s all right,” Nix says. “We’d like to make a deposit.”

“The tellers can help you with that. Anything else?”

“Trust, Mr. Griffin. I’d like to deposit trust. It’s essential that I trust you and your institution.”

The linebacker-turned-banker has yet to move anything besides his eyes. His entwined hands rest like a wrecking ball while the computer chatters. His pupils rapidly shift, data streaming into his internal vision. He’s looking for the same thing as Nix.
Trust
.

“What kind of deposit?” he says.

“A very large transfer.”

“More specific, please.”

Nix pushes a piece of paper across the desk. Inside, there’s a number equal to the trust fee required to access the fabricator. All of this Nix learned from the pill. Mr. Griffin flicks a glance at the paper. He says nothing.

“Not enough?” Jamie leans forward.

Again, Nix puts his hand on her arm.

Mr. Griffin stares at Jamie without blinking. This is what Nix was afraid of. She was found dead in the warehouse and now she’s sitting in front of him. There wasn’t time to rewrite her history. It was better to come clean, let them see the truth. After all, very few come inquiring about a fabricator without a murky past.

The computer goes quiet.

“We’ve been through a lot,” Nix adds. “It would mean a lot if we could deposit something today. That’s all we’re asking. I believe it’ll be worth your time.”

Mr. Griffin turns his hard stare on Nix, eyes that could break rocks. It’s unlikely he does much banking. The silence stretches out. Jamie begins to fidget.

The door opens.

“Jalen will escort you to a deposit box,” he says. “She’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

The woman stands to the side with a pleasant smile. Nix stands without bothering to shake hands. They cross the spotless lobby, the feeling of Mr. Griffin’s glare following them. Nix avoids looking for any one of the numerous cameras spying on them.

There’s no need for paperwork. No signatures or promises. Everything has been visually captured.

Jalen takes them down a sterile hallway. Only the sound of her heels bounce off the walls. They enter a pristine vault with walls of metal drawers, each emblazoned with a number.

She pulls open 204. “Will this be enough?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. I will leave you long enough to make your deposit. When you’re finished, I will ensure the drawer is locked. Rest assured, your deposit is secure with us. If everything is in order and appears satisfactory, you will hear from Mr. Griffin in three days. Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

“I’ll be right outside.”

Jalen provides a parting smile. Nix waits until she’s completely outside. He places a small envelope inside the box, the contents thumping on the metal plate.

“What if they just take it?” Jamie asks.

“I’ve made arrangements.”

He slides the box closed, exhales slowly.
But what if it’s not enough? What else do I have to bargain?

Jamie hooks her arms around his. “That’s it?”

“For now.”

“Let’s grab some lunch, then.”

“A nap will do.”

He’s aching to visit Dreamland, even if he’s lost at sea.

Ninety-eight.

Ninety-nine.

One hundred.

Paul collapses on the floor, sweat on his forehead. He ventures outside the shed to relieve himself, and not very far, at that. The eight-by-ten-foot building has become a cell. Plates and cups are stacked in the corner; newspapers litter the cot.

He sits against the doorjamb to enjoy the breeze cutting through the trees. From this angle he can see the house. The lights are off, which means Cali’s in the basement. The track marks inside his arm are witness to her determination.

Days have gone by. The cot Cali brought out got him off the floor. The worst part isn’t the boredom or the circuit board’s constant buzzing. It’s the questions. Exercising helps blot them out, but he can’t fill all the idle time and, inevitably, the questions slip through.
Whose body is back at the warehouse? Whose body is inside this utility shed?

His body aches when he pushes it; it shivers at night. Hunger gnaws and thirst beckons. If that was his body—his original shell—back at the warehouse, what does it matter if nothing feels different?

Paul steps on the cot and reaches for the rafters. He does pull-ups until it burns and sit-ups until he’s about to puke. Back and forth, he goes, until there’s nothing left. Not even thoughts.

Eventually, he falls asleep with a question.

Who am I?

***

The circuit board is breaking.

Paul rolls over. His eyes adjust. Cali is holding a small cube, her finger hooked through the wire handle. It’s a fuse.

The green lights are dead. The board is silent.

She pulled the fuse.

“What’re you doing?” he says.

She doesn’t answer, just walks out.

Paul sits on the cot, staring. The silence is pleasurable. The buzzing echoes in his head. He steps out of the shed. Cali is nearly to the house, the dogs at her side. The sky is blue with wispy clouds that feel closer, as if there’s no barrier between him and the heavens.

The dome is gone.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table when he arrives; her hands around a coffee cup. “Why would you do that?” he says.

“Have a seat.”

Paul ignores the chair. A week in that cell and she ends it, like that. She slides a vial into the center of the table. It rolls in a circle, the dark red proof settling on the bottom. He sits without taking his eyes off it.

“You’re 22% biomites, Paul” Cali says.

He sighs, but before relief follows—
I am human, after all
—she finishes.

“But the rest of you are nixes that look like clay.”

“What…what does that mean?”

“It means you have two kinds of biomites. You have the standard-issue ones that every red-blooded American has. You also have nixes that are invisible to a scan. When you got here, I only saw the first ones. I mistook the nixes as clay, but blood analysis confirmed it.”

“I’m…
halfskin?
”

“You’re not halfskin, Paul. You don’t have any clay.”

She delivers the message like an emotionally detached surgeon. His lungs contract and the air becomes heavy. All sensation leaves his legs. Her words sink in, thumping down steps of awareness until they settle on the ground floor that’s already littered with questions.

“I don’t… How can that…?”

“You’re a fabrication, Paul. Your clay body was turned off, I’m guessing, and they made the switch at the warehouse, left it to be discovered so that you appeared dead. I’ll assume this was all part of a larger scheme to find Nix and me, that M0ther compelled you to take Jamie.”

“No.”

“You just walked out of there, right? You left your job and family and drove across the country, looking for someplace safe.” She knocks on the table. “There’s nowhere safer than here. I think M0ther knew Nix was watching. She knew he wanted Jamie. She knew that he would find you, and that he would lead you to me.”

Paul grabs onto the table, as if he might spill on the floor. The realization is still finding its place into his awareness, threatening to tip him over like a ship without ballast.

Cali’s cold visage fractures. She goes to the sink. Perhaps she can’t watch him come to terms with his true nature. Paul tries to say something, anything, but his tongue is useless.

There’s a tapping on the window. They watch a housefly bang against the glass. The promise of freedom is on the other side.

“I’m tired, Paul. I used to think that I had stopped running when I got here, that the dome would give me the peace I deserved. But all I did was trade running for hiding. My world is so small.”

Cali continues to stare outside.

“It took a brick to make that obvious.”

“Don’t call me that,” he says. “Don’t call me a brick.”

“You’re made of biomites, Paul. What do you call that?”

“That’s not what I mean.” He pounds the table. Coffee spills.

She nods, understands. She’s only a sliver away from the same fate, only 1% from the same classification. What qualifies her as human? A single cell of clay? Is that enough?

“Why aren’t you shut down?” Paul asks. “If I’m a brick, why have I been here for months?”

“Why are you still here?”

He stammers. There’s no answer that will sound right. The farm feels like home. Despite a job and family back in Seattle, he has nowhere else to go.
I’m where I’m supposed to be.

“Your nixes are the same as mine,” Cali says. “I possess the first strain of nixes ever created, Paul. They’re the ones I developed over twenty years ago to drop off of M0ther’s radar. While the world has developed their own nixes, no one has ever replicated my strain. No one, Paul. But you show up out of the blue with the same exact strain, with
my strain.
”

“Then why couldn’t you see it?”

“When I sensed your 22%, I assumed the rest were clay. My mistake, but it wouldn’t have mattered.”

No, it wouldn’t have. I was already here.

“Why am I here?” he asks, embarrassed that there’s a quiver in his voice.

“I think M0ther has known about Nix and me from the very beginning,” she says. “I think, maybe, we never fell off her radar, she just stopped reporting us. I think that’s why she sent you, Paul. She wants me to know.”

“Why?”

She shakes her head and rubs her tired face. Her complexion is gaunt and haunted. She continues shaking, staring out the window while the fly bangs into the glass, over and over and over. Maybe she’s not looking out the window; she’s not seeing the barn or anything beyond it. She sees an insect dying of exhaustion.

The dogs follow her outside and she does what she does best when she doesn’t have an answer. She begins to run.

Paul is alone at the table. He doesn’t believe a word she says, doesn’t believe he’s a brick or that he’s the messenger of a conspiracy. He thinks clearly, feels normal, and remembers his life. But he stares at the vial of proof.

Hoping she’s wrong.