The Diatous Wars 1: Rebel Wing (28 page)

The process of
writing, revising, and bringing
Rebel Wing
to you, my lovely readers, was a labor of love spanning more than four years, three states, two—no, three—countries, with a lot of struggle and heartache along the way. I could not have made the journey without the incredible outpouring of support, encouragement, feedback, and faith from the following amazing people:

Heartfelt thanks, fangirl hugs, and cupcake sprinkles go to my incredibly insightful editors Lanie Davis and Eliza Swift. You’ve made this experience
more
than the dream. There are no words for how awesome you are, and I should know. I’m a writer.

Big thanks to the rest of the wonderful, amazing team at Alloy, including Les Morgenstein, Josh Bank, Sara Shandler, Kristin Marang, Romy Golan, and Matthew Bloomgarden; it is an honor to work with you. To Hayley Wagreich, the mastermind behind the sparkly, evocative new title, and Natalie Sousa, who created such a beautiful “face” for my little book baby.

Thank you to the team at Amazon, Caroline Carr and Philip Patrick, for beginning this program with Alloy and being so enthusiastic about
Rebel Wing
’s inclusion in it.

Rachel Marks and Rebecca Friedman, I’m so glad you found me, thank you! I’m thrilled to have such talented women as part of my team.

But before all these fabulous folks at Alloy, Amazon, and RF Literary changed my life,
Rebel Wing
was
Shattered Veil
, a book I loved with all of my heart, a book that I just couldn’t give up on. Here are the people who wouldn’t let me:

Thank you to my earliest (some might say bravest) readers: Héloïse, Mandy, Norma, Rachel, Dawn, Morgan, Rebekah, Michelle, Laura, and Cory. You guys rock my socks. To Fatima Petersen, for inspiring Aris’s gorgeous hair. To Theresa and Deward Ray, for providing a comfortable place to write and the most delicious brain fuel. I am now a cupcake addict because of you. To Wendy Schmalz and Catherine Frank, for all of your enthusiasm and support for this book. To Julia Blum, for believing that Aris—and I—had an important story to tell. To my wonderful final-round betas—David Pandolfe, Bethany Dellinger, JJ, and Bernadette Hearne.

Thank you to Victoria Schmitz at Crimson Tide Editorial for the free editorial assessment and your enthusiasm for
Shattered Veil
. To Regina Wamba, for being a total rockstar. You are everything that is awesome and amazing. Ali Cross, thank you for your kick-butt formatting skills and even bigger talent for being an awesome friend. Big awkward smooshy hugs.

Huge thanks to my amazing critique partners Shari Arnold, Susanne Winnacker, and Jennifer Walkup—I feel so privileged to work with you and call you my friends. Thank you, also, to my critters in Winston-Salem (miss you guys!), Kass Morgan, Jessica Spotswood, Stephanie Perkins, and to all the other authors who’ve interacted with me, inspired me, supported me, and generally been fabulous, including the Bookanistas, Indelibles, S3G, Twitter author friends, RDU Nanos, and more. The YA community is powerful, affirming, and inclusive—and I’m so proud and grateful to be a part of it.

Thank you to the Blanton and Hall clan for welcoming me with such open arms, and for your enthusiastic support of my writing. To my parents for embracing my early nerdhood and sending me to all those writing camps. You were on to something there! (And thanks, Mom, for making all your friends read my books.) To Betsy and Suzanne, for being such strong, positive female role models, and for being so supportive of my writing. It means so much.

Ollie, you are the best distraction and procrastination tool
ever
. Thank you for being the coolest, cutest, smartest baby in the world. You make Mommy proud.

To Jody Escaravage: You are the most amazingly generous, loyal, supportive friend. Aris is as strong and capable as she is because of you . . . and if you promise not to tell anyone, I’ll admit the same is true for me. Also, big hugs to Felix. (Someday you can show him his name in print.)

To all of my wonderful readers, thank you for taking a chance on me. You’re the reason I keep writing.

To the courageous women and men serving in the Armed Forces—especially those who made the sacrifice of hiding who they were to fight for this country during the years of “don’t ask, don’t tell”—you have my gratitude and utmost respect.

And, finally, to my husband Andy: When you left for Iraq, you took a large part of my soul with you. I spent every single day of that long, long year missing you and praying for your safe return. Aris was born out of my longing for you; your encouragement and military knowledge made her story about so much more. You are the strongest, most honorable, funniest person I know, and I feel so blessed to be married to you. Thank you for pushing me and always believing in me. This would not have been possible without you.

Award-winning author, army wife, and mom, Tracy Banghart has an MA in publishing and an unhealthy affection for cupcakes. Her quiet childhood led to a reading addiction, writing obsession, and several serious book boyfriends.
Rebel Wing
is her third novel. Follow @tracythewriter on Twitter or visit her at www.tracybanghart.com.

Looking for more great reads? Turn the page for an excerpt of

IMITATION

By Heather Hildenbrand

Ven knows everything about wealthy, eighteen-year-old Raven Rogen, from her favorite designer down to the tiny scar on her right arm. That’s because she’s Raven’s clone, though she’s never met her face-to-face. Imitations only get to leave the lab when their Authentics need them—to replace the dead, to offer an organ transplant, or in Ven’s case, to serve as bait after Raven is attacked in broad daylight. Thrust into the real world for the very first time, Ven must draw out Raven’s assailants, or die trying. But when Ven falls for Raven’s bodyguard, she discovers some things are worth living for. She was created to serve . . . but is she prepared to sacrifice herself for a girl she’s never met?

Everyone is exactly
like me.

There is no one like me.

I wrestle with these contradicting truths most nights while the others sleep. Tonight is worse because Marla has left me a note to see her in the morning. No one sees Marla and comes back. Lonnie reminded me of this after she snatched the note out of my shaking hand and read it for Ida, who promptly burst into tears. We didn’t speak after that, lying in our bunks until lights out.

Above me, Lonnie steadily breathes in and out. She’s not worrying herself out of a good night’s sleep. She’s not the one going to see Marla. Below me, Ida is quiet. I suspect she is awake, ruminating. She has a way of latching on to other people’s stress and not letting go until everyone is happy again. I long to call out to her, but there is no talking in the dormitory after lights out.

The rough fabric of my cotton nightgown chafes so I lie very still. Once, during a training exercise, they gave me a satin blouse in place of my coarse uniform. For a few moments, I was completely
her
—eighteen-year-old Raven Rogen, my Authentic—down to the fabric. The slippery material felt like cool fingertips on a hot day. All I could think was:
She wears clothes like this every single day
.

I know everything about Raven and the world she lives in, thanks to the video footage I watch during my training sessions. But I have never experienced anything for myself—not even the sun. My entire life is an imitation of hers.

I am an Imitation.

All of us here are. From the time the tubes are removed and air is forced into our lungs, until our petri-grown organs learn to contract on their own, we are nothing but shadows of our Authentics. I used to think there was an Imitation for every Authentic, but when I asked my Examiner, Josephine, she laughed and said we’d need a whole lot more space here if that was the case. Only special Authentics get the privilege of a copy—ones with money, power, influence.

It seems as if there are thousands of us, though it’s hard to tell exactly how many exist. Twig City is sorted into sections, our placement depending on our gender, how old we were when they “woke” us, and whether we’ve gotten a note from Marla. Those woken at a young age live in a different wing, where nurses and teachers chart their development daily. You have to be at least twelve to live on my floor—the training sector, where we learn to
become
our Authentic—but the oldest I’ve seen is somewhere around fifty. There is no saying how long you’ll stay in this sector once you’re here. Could be a week, could be a year, depending on when your Authentic needs you. I’ve been awake for five years. Training. Preparing. Waiting—for a note from Marla. And for what comes after.

Some say Marla is our creator—but I don’t think so. I have a memory, a hazy nightmare, of the day I woke. None of the first faces I saw were female. One man in particular stands out in the fog. I can’t recall his features, but the impression he left is one of utter fear. Though I can’t explain it, I am positive this man is our creator.

Others say Marla is the gatekeeper. A walker between worlds, connecting us, the Imitations, to
them
. The humans, the womb-born, the Authentics.

I don’t know which is true. All I know is no one ever returns from meeting with Marla.

Across the pitch-dark room comes a whisper, and I count down the seconds until an Overseer comes in. Overseers are the sentries, the silent guards who watch and wait, only intervening when a rule is broken or boundary overstepped. A minute later, I hear the sure, swift fall of an Overseer’s feet as she makes her way to the offending bunk to bark an order of quiet at whoever it was. Probably Clora. She’s new and headstrong. Lonnie speculates it is a trait from her Authentic. I hope not. If it’s part of her DNA, it won’t be easy an easy habit to break.

“This is your only warning,” the Overseer threatens. “Another infraction and you’ll be reported to Marla.”

I’m convinced Overseers are paid to be cross. I’ve told this to my Examiner, Josephine, and she doesn’t bother arguing so I know it’s true. Josephine is more laid-back than most, but I’ve never told her the real truth: that the idea of leaving Twig City is terrifying. Instead, I tell Josephine what she wants to hear, what Imitations are supposed to say: When I am called to duty, I will be ready. I will serve my Authentic in any way necessary.

After all, I was created to serve.

The Overseer finishes her warning and exits the room, back to her monitoring booth full of cameras. The door latches with a soft click and all is silent save for the omnipresent hum of the building. They say it is the sound of life being poured through plastic piping and into the tiny tube-grown humans housed downstairs. Tonight, it grates on me.

I chase sleep, grazing my fingertips across its tail end but never fully catch it. Hours later, the lights come on, signaling to our windowless chamber that it is morning. I shove the blanket aside and sit up, blinking against a sea of sameness.

The sleeping room is a long rectangle with high ceilings and a bad echo, lined with triple-level bunk beds. Everyone here is part of a trio. Lonnie says it’s because three’s a crowd. It creates diversity and therefore animosity. It discourages the bonding that happens when there are only two. Ida tells her she’s wrong because the three of us have bonded just fine. I see both points; no one else seems as close as we are, but no other trio has lasted this long. I’ve been with Lonnie and Ida since I began. Most others have lost at least one of their threesome to a note from Marla, only to have them replaced by a stranger.

And now I have a letter.

I slide out of my bunk and land lightly on my feet. In the bunk above, Lonnie is slow to wake, grumpily mumbling about bacon and coffee as she stretches her toned arms toward the ceiling. She thinks her Authentic must not be a morning person.

Ida stands more quickly. Her thick black hair ripples as she moves, mussed but manageable in its pixie cut. Her eyes are heavy and blinking but not from grogginess; her lids are puffy, rimmed in pink. The longer she stares at me, the more her bottom lip trembles. I slip my shoes on and fuss with my pale hair—anything to ignore Ida’s nervous energy.

Anna, the girl whose bunk is closest to ours, catches my eye and nods. I nod back in silent hello. It is a daily ritual, simple and meaningless considering we never converse beyond this, but I will miss it when I’m gone.

While we wait for Lonnie, I take Ida’s hand in mine and hold her palm open. Using my index finger, I trace the outline of a square and then a check mark inside it.
It’s going to be okay,
I convey using our secret language. Ida takes my hand and scribbles a wavy line across my palm in return. A loose
W
for “whatever
.
”

I let my hand drop.

It started on paper, a shorthand code made up of symbols we’d exchange back and forth to communicate during lectures. When we got caught passing notes, we began drawing the pictures in invisible lines on each other’s skin.

“Ven, I don’t want you to go,” Ida says in her soft voice, which always makes me think of dolls in pretty dresses. Porcelain. Breakable.

I don’t acknowledge her plea. If she cries again, I fear I will, too.

“Time for breakfast,” I say.

We fall into step together as the crowd of girls who live in this wing surge toward the breakfast hall. The air smells of sleepy bodies with an underlying chemical scent that drifts down from the pipes and mixes with everything, even the food and water.

Anna bumps my shoulder as she pushes past. I don’t complain, because we’re taught silence is best when there’s nothing of value to say. Besides, the way to breakfast used to involve a lot more shoving and jostling for space. Notes from Marla have depleted our numbers.

We’re the last group to arrive and the room, although large, is crowded. Four dormitories share this dining hall, a total of roughly two hundred forty women in plain uniforms.

“I smell bacon,” Lonnie announces. She heads straight for the buffet line and taps her foot impatiently as she waits her turn. I wander to the coffee and muffins station with Ida and fill a plate even though my stomach feels packed with bricks.

As we sit down at our regular table, Lonnie glares suspiciously at Ida’s plate. “Is that bran?”

“Bran’s good for you,” Ida says, her lips forming a pout.

I stare longingly at Lonnie’s single piece of sausage and two small strips of bacon.

“Don’t be too jealous,” she says. “I had to sign up for an extra thirty minutes of cardio to get both.”

As the smell hits me, it seems a small price to pay. I watch with rapture as she chews. She catches me looking. I force a bite of my muffin. “Yum,” I say dryly.

Lonnie grins. “All the money they bring in growing people in test tubes, you’d think they could afford tastier food. Messed-up priorities, I’m telling ya.”

“Maybe Ven will make Marla change her mind,” Ida says abruptly.

Lonnie rolls her eyes and mumbles “not likely” around a mouthful of eggs. They are not real eggs but processed, organic material packed with vitamins and proteins. Lonnie says she doesn’t care as long as they’re hot.

Ida glares at her. “It’s possible. Ven can be convincing when she wants to be.”

“No one ‘convinces’ Marla,” Lonnie says.

She’s right. Even Ida knows it. “What do you think they want with you?” Ida asks quietly.

Lonnie and I share a look. There are only two reasons an Imitation gets a letter from Marla.

“They probably have an assignment for me,” I say. Neither of us is willing to say the other option: that I’m wanted for harvesting. No one ever talks about it, but we all know it’s the main reason we exist.

In training, we speak only of assignments. Missions. Most often, the job involves inserting yourself into the life of your Authentic when you’re needed. For what, exactly, they don’t say, and we’ve never been able to ask. Imitations who complete their assignments move from Training to Maintenance, where they get more free time than we have here. I’ve imagined hundreds of missions: giving speeches for a camera-shy Authentic; going to work while your Authentic vacations on tropical islands; walking the red carpet while your Authentic is sick in bed; being a surrogate mother . . .

“You’re probably right that it’s a mission,” Ida says. “Something clandestine and exciting, I’m sure.”

There is a note of forced cheerfulness in her voice. Anyone else listening would assume it was for my benefit, or Lonnie’s, but I know better. Ida must convince herself there is no reason to panic.

“If you’re really lucky, you’ll get Relocation,” Lonnie suggests.

Relocation is the ultimate reward, where you’re sent when your Authentic is no longer in need of an Imitation. They say it’s a hidden wing of Twig City full of nothing but relaxation. Sort of like retirement. Donuts and lounge chairs until our bodies give out. Exercise is no longer required six days a week and our bacon isn’t rationed. Lonnie says that last part is too good to be true. Ida always rolls her eyes at that.

“That would mean my Authentic is dead,” I point out.

“Not necessarily,” Lonnie argues. “Maybe she just doesn’t want an Imitation anymore.”

“Or maybe she wants to meet you. Can you imagine that? Living with humans? Pretending to be one of them?” Ida is faraway, her words wistful.

I force my hand steady and let Ida’s comment pass without reply, choking down the smaller half of my muffin. I try to focus on my excitement rather than my fear. Because like it or not, I have a note to see Marla. And no one sees Marla and comes back.

For more, follow @HeatherHildenbr or visit her at www.heatherhildenbrand.blogspot.com