Deviation (Clone Chronicles #2)(66)
“Oh. Yeah.”
Obadiah clucks his tongue. “They left a sense of humor out of the made-to-order DNA request, huh?”
“I have a sense of humor,” I shoot back, my chin rising at the insult. The urge to be Raven is strong; the jabs come easy with her. Obadiah’s brow shoots up and I can’t help myself. “For example, I think your haircut is hilarious.”
He reaches up to smooth his shiny onyx hair. “What’s wrong with my haircut?”
Guilt washes over me and my mouth twitches at the easy way he flusters. Just like Ida. A lump forms in my chest. “Nothing. Now, whose sense of humor is missing?” I say, but the bite has gone out of my voice.
Obadiah scowls and turns back to the show.
“… and these are just a few of the cases in which high-traffic identity theft has become commonplace in our society. We’re committed to stopping it by whatever means necessary. Otherwise, our entire population could be infiltrated by imposters and we wouldn’t even know it.”
Behind me someone snorts before it turns quickly to a cough. I search for the person who made it and almost miss him. He’s leaning against the wall between a large, leafy shrub in a pot bigger than my dresser and a serving cart overflowing with dirty dishes and empty champagne flutes. His white shirt almost makes him look like the help. Almost.
And even though I can’t see his eyes through the shadows of where he’s hiding, I know he’s watching me. My skin tingles with awareness.
“All right, hold your questions for now. There will be more time for that in a few moments.” Mr. Snidd smiles at the groans uttered by the media and gestures to someone off stage. “I’d like to introduce the man responsible for the solution we’re all proposing tonight. This is a man who has dedicated his life and career to improving the human condition and life span through science and, well, through his own God-given genius. We wouldn’t be where we are today without him. And so it’s only fitting that he be the one to share the details of this new program with you. Mr. Rogen, if you’ll come.”
Mr. Snidd moves aside and Titus makes his way up the stairs and onto the stage. He takes the microphone in his hand, his knuckles folding around the object in a way that makes my breath hitch. I can’t think past what he did to Ida. All I see are his hands closing over my throat. Or Ida’s. Or the throat of anyone who tries to thwart him. Obadiah, Linc, Lonnie. We’re all dangling so close to the precipice of his wrath with nowhere else to go, no one else—
“Ven?” Linc’s appearance at my side is surprising enough to snap me out of it.
He’s crouched beside my chair, his brows knitting in concern. He’s dropped his hands near his lap but his arm presses lightly against my hip and I’m glad for the contact. “Yes, I’m—I’m fine.”
But he’s not here to check on me. Not really. “They’re calling for you backstage,” he says.
“Oh.”
I rise, wobbly but managing, and follow him out. The crowd parts and then thins until we’re in a narrow hallway far from the glitzy lights and glimmering dresses. Up ahead, I spot men with suits surrounded by more men in black jackets and wired earpieces. Linc stops me before we can reach them. “You’re shaking,” he says.
“Am I?” I bite my lip and tune back into the speech Titus is giving. His voice is muffled by whatever thin walls separate us but the words are clear enough. The second they reach me, every molecule in me jerks to attention.
“The mark we’ve developed is a six-digit code that will be imprinted on the skin. It will identify you and match to a digital file that will include your medical history, your financial records, and countless other records that will make your identity much harder to copy or steal.” Titus pauses to smile. Flashes go off, a picture of smugness. “This is a process and design we’ve spent many months refining. We’ve had the top fashion experts give input toward the design, so don’t worry,” he says, sprinkling laughter into his voice, “It will be as trendy as the spring line, I can assure you.”
There is a pause and Titus allows a question. Despite all the urgings in me to run, I inch closer, needing to hear more.
“Why a six-digit number?” another voice asks. This one is fainter without the help of the microphone. I have to strain to hear. “I mean, can’t anyone figure out your number, tattoo it on their own body, and impersonate you that way?”
“Great question,” Titus says. His confidence dashes all of my hope at the point the reporter just made. “The mark will not only include a six-digit number specific only to you but also a small image of a tree. The ink for both images will be embedded with ultra-violet and high-sensor refractive ink. Think something akin to your thumbprint, which, by the way, used to be the primary method of unique identification until it too was hacked by the terrorists responsible for crashing our financial infrastructure. The mark I’ve designed, complete with embedded DNA coding that is more advanced than vein screening, is something not reproducible without my equipment.”
Murmurs circulate. They sound like agreements being made or some adding their two cents.
I inch closer, around a corner and up to the edges of a partition wall erected to keep the crowd out of the area Linc led me to. A woman on the fringes of the crowd turns to her neighbor and says, “My aunt’s second cousin said her entire bank account was wiped out at once. They took it all. Poor thing had to move to Eurasia with her daughter-in-law’s family and start over on a truffle farm. She feeds pigs now.”