Constance (Constance #1)(14)
A voice like twisted smoke asked her if that was really true.
“I am Constance D’Arcy,” she answered defiantly and pinched the skin of her wrist hard, the way she’d done ever since she was a girl, using the sharp pain to focus herself. Through the glass face of the womb, she could make out the shadowy outline of a naked man, his face sallow and vacant, skin the texture of raw chicken. In the next womb, a redheaded boy, no older than seven, lay dormant. Who would subject a child to this? Con gazed at the boy, a vacant Pinocchio, so realistic, so close to alive down here among all these other misfit creatures. Not people, not yet, the spark necessary to give them life stored on a fantastically large quantum computer elsewhere in the complex. So, what were they until then? What was she now?
Presumptuous meat. That was how Franklin Butler, the founder of Children of Adam and leader of the anti-clone movement, had described them at a rally on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. At the time, she’d only caught the highlights on her feed and dismissed it as angry rhetoric. But now, from the other side of the divide, Con shuddered at its ugliness. The gulf between witnessing hatred and being its object was as wide as the ocean. Fortunately, or unfortunately, that was a problem for another time. If the security guards found her in here, then everything else was irrelevant. Problem was, despite the size of the room, it offered little in the way of hiding places. The only option she saw was to duck down between two of the wombs and hope the guards didn’t give the vault more than a quick once-over. But, given the outrageous sticker price for even a single clone, she doubted they’d be that careless.
She paused before an open womb, staring up into the empty chamber. Could this have been hers? Out in the hall, the guards’ voices grew louder. They were going to find her and delete her. There was one other place she could hide, although it made her skin crawl even thinking about it. Tugging her T-shirt and bralette over her head, she climbed into the empty womb. She pulled the lid closed, using the hem of her shirt to prevent the locks from engaging. She stifled a claustrophobic sob. Her fingers couldn’t work the laces of her shoes, so the best she could do was to yank her jeans and underwear down to her ankles and pray the guards didn’t linger for long.
A flashlight’s beam swept across the room. Con shut her eyes and held her breath, wishing she could sink down into the gel-cushioned webbing that formed the back of the womb. It went fine until she began to question whether she’d heard the locks engage. What if she were trapped in here? Alive, aware, but mistaken for an inactive clone? Pounding on the glass with no one to hear her. No one to let her out. The thought was so vivid, so terrifyingly real, that spasms began in her hands, as if her fingers were trying to detach themselves and crawl away. She balled them into fists. I am Constance D’Arcy, she reminded herself as the guards neared. Repeating it silently like a prayer, she willed herself to lie motionless. The guard passed her womb without slowing down, but she didn’t dare move until she heard the heavy vault door seal shut with a resolute thud. Only then did she open her eyes.
Zhi stepped out of the shadows and rapped his knuckles on the glass to get her attention. Con flinched, hands going to her face to cover her eyes.
“Where’s Tommy?” Zhi asked, impatient to get on the road.
“Are you okay to drive?” Con asked half-heartedly, slipping effortlessly into the memory. She was eager to push on to Raleigh but had to admit Tommy was right: Zhi looked exhausted. They’d played five cities in six days, and they were all burned out. More than a little sick of each other after a week crammed into a van with all their gear. She loved them, but they were all starting to drive each other a little crazy. The way family could. Before the show, the band had voted to drive on to Raleigh rather than spend the night in DC.
It had been Con’s idea, even though the Raleigh show wasn’t for three days. If they drove straight through, she and Zhi would have forty-eight uninterrupted hours to themselves. They hadn’t been alone in nearly two weeks, and her need for him had begun to ache. They were going to hang the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the motel door and not show their faces until it was time for the show. Two whole days in bed with Zhi. She could hardly wait.
Tommy had been the lone holdout, voting to stay and get a proper night’s sleep first. Why the rush? he wanted to know. Majority ruled, however. Band policy. Although, in retrospect, hadn’t Zhi always put up his hand straightaway so that everyone knew his preference? And didn’t Con always vote with him, which meant that Stephie and Hugh almost always did too? That left poor Tommy to be the unwelcome voice of reason in the band.
“Yeah, I’m cool,” Zhi said with a grin. “Stephie and Hugh are getting us some caffeine and snacks for the road. Just gotta find Tommy now.”
“Haven’t seen him,” Con answered despite wanting desperately to warn him that maybe they shouldn’t drive on to Raleigh tonight. But this was a memory, not a new experience, no matter how real it felt. She could only relive it the way it had been lived. There would be no revisions. No way to change the words any more than the outcome.
“Maybe he’s having a smoke,” Zhi said, turning to go. “I’ll check around back.”
“Raleigh!” she called after him. The way she had three years ago, when what she wanted to do now was tell him how Tommy’s parents had paid to fly his body home. How even if she hadn’t been in the hospital, she wouldn’t have dared to show her face at the funeral.