Imposter (16 page)

Will

“Are you ready to go, sir?” I ask Socrates when he emerges from the bathroom. His pale face is scrubbed clean and his short hair is damp. He’s wearing a pristine white tunic and flowing white pants. A yellow belt is cinched tight around his waist.

I study his pale face. Maybe he’s sick. Why else would he run to the bathroom and start throwing up?

Under my scrutiny, Socrates flattens his hands on the front of his white tunic. He returns to the bathroom and stares at his reflection in the big mirror over the bathroom sink. About a minute later he joins us, looking much more calm and composed. “Yes,” he says. “Let’s go.”

I push myself away from the wall I’d been leaning against. “All right.” My gaze turns to George Eliot, who stands up and grabs a suit coat from a hook inside the large bureau.

“You’re not leaving without me.” She smiles at the other  First.

Ben jumps off the bed and joins us. When I reach for the leash, Socrates shakes his head. “No, I think we should leave him here.”

My hand stills. “But you always take him with you.”

The old First glances at the dog. “It’s fine, really. Besides, I don’t think Ben can help me do this. I think I’d be better off without him this time.”

“Okay.” I pass both of the Firsts and open the door. It’s none of my business, anyway, what he does with his dog.

The once cluttered banquet room now oozes splendor and majesty. Snow-white tablecloths cloak all the tables. Bright floral centerpieces decorate each table, their fragrances wafting throughout the room. Huge flickering glass chandeliers are scattered in between enormous ceiling tiles. The tables fill quickly as servants escort Firsts and other dignitaries in a steady stream to their seats.

Socrates stops, and panic fills his eyes. The lines between Socrates and Mira blur, and I don’t see some five-hundred-year-old murderer but the girl I lost.

“Are you all right, sir?” My eyes meet Eliot’s. With a quick glare, she warns me to back off.

“This is all so much. I don’t know if I can do this.” Socrates wavers back and forth, one foot ready to go forward and the other eager to dart back into the hallway.

“You have to. Mira died so you could give this speech,” Eliot hisses into Socrates’s ear. Without waiting for his response, she grabs her husband’s arm and drags him away.

I tear my gaze away from their retreating forms as another familiar face catches my attention. Evie carries a tray of drinks to a table of Firsts. From the stormy expression on her face, I can only guess she saw me bring in Socrates and George Eliot.

Brennan gestures for me to join him by the service entrance. The tension on his face relaxes as soon as I join him. “I know this isn’t your assignment, but could you cover Gracen’s section over there?” He points to the grouping of tables on the far left side of the auditorium. “The damn fool tripped in the kitchen and busted his wrist. Had to send him to get it set and now I’m down a person.”

“I didn’t know you were in charge of catering, too.”

Brennan barks out a laugh and wipes the sweat from his brow. “I’m not. I hate this shit. Let me train kids for protection any day. No, I guess someone higher up specifically requested that I take control of this. Said something about needing better security because of an unidentified threat.” He scowls, as if I’m responsible. “But when I asked what it was, nobody would tell me. Frustrating as hell.” Brennan glances over at the other servants and then back at me. “We better get moving. I don’t want my ass on the line if something goes wrong.” He leads me through the servant entrance and directs me on which trays to grab and which tables to serve.

After I finish passing out the second tray, I spot the young man wearing the strange silver gloves. The pure hatred on his face rivals Evie’s fury.
Not very popular today, are you?
I don’t know what I did, but I’d better watch my back with this one. I stride quickly to a table I hadn’t waited on yet and proceed to pass out the drinks on my tray.

Once I’ve served all of my tables, I join a small group of servants waiting for the next course. Every once in a while a camera zooms through the air, it’s operator hovering along the far wall. By the main entrance, a reporter smiles cheekily as she gives a news broadcast. Without consciously realizing it, I start scanning the crowd and find both Socrates and Eliot sitting at the long table in the front with the president and his wife.

They speak to each other quietly and sip from long flutes of champagne, just like the ones I gave to those sitting in my section of tables. Now that he’s in the thick of the action, Socrates looks so relaxed; I feel some of my own tension leaving me. He’s ready for this speech. My heart wells up with some feeling I can’t identify. Perhaps he really can pull this off. If he does, what does that mean for the Texans?

A few minutes after everyone sits down, a white-haired man in an old-fashioned tuxedo walks onstage and taps on an even older wooden podium. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” He smiles and waits for the applause to die down. “Today, before you enjoy the finest cuisine provided from our best farms, I’m pleased to introduce one of our most internationally recognized Firsts, Socrates, who has come to speak to you on behalf of the Free America Bill.

“Tomorrow morning, you will vote on this Bill, and at a special luncheon, we will discuss the decision.” He pauses, scanning the crowd as anticipation builds. Once he’s satisfied, he sweeps his arm out toward the front table. “I bring you, Socrates!” He smiles at the First. “The floor is yours.”

Socrates stands up as the man leaves the stage. With one last reassuring smile from Eliot, Socrates pushes his chair back then walks to the stage and up the steps. In my mind, I see Mira help Socrates to the stage at the Acceptance banquet when he was too weak to do it himself. This time, the First needs no help. 

Socrates waits at the podium until he has everyone’s attention. It doesn’t take long.

“First of all, I’d like to apologize.” He takes a deep breath as the crowd murmurs amongst themselves. “I’m not the person you think I am. Many people recall me as being quiet and compliant and weak under pressure.” His voice rises. “But that Socrates is dead.” Another pause with more murmurs from the audience. “I’m not going to back down when other people try and force me to, or because it’s easier and safer. I’m not going to fill your heads with empty words and encouragement, because I’m not Socrates.” He waits for it to sink in. Several people in the crowd murmur to their companions. My breath catches in my throat. “I’m Mira of Chesaning Farms.”

What is Socrates doing? He must have some sort of plan here.
“I’m not five hundred years old, I’m seventeen, and when Socrates chose me, I was three months away from getting out of the program. I had a boyfriend, Tanner, and we were supposed to be married.”

How could Socrates know all that?
A sharp pain pierces my chest.
Stop it, Will. He’s acting. That’s all.

“I didn’t know what it meant to be Chosen, but I knew I’d have to leave the farm. I’d have to leave my mom and my little brother, who was just entering the program as I was getting out.” Her eyes, her beautiful eyes, scan the crowd, pausing several times.

I push away from the wall, rage threatening to consume me.
How dare he! He has no right to pretend to be Mira, just to get the audience’s attention and further his own agenda.
Brennan notices my agitation and shakes his head so slightly, that I almost miss it. He points at the stage, ordering me to pay attention. Fine. I slouch back against the wall and look toward the First.

“I’m a Texan, yes, and I may be descended of the original rebels who bombed the Pentagon and the White House, but I didn’t deserve to be ripped away from my family to be killed when some old man wanted a new body. I didn’t deserve to live in fear every Visit, not knowing what’s going to happen or how it would affect me. Whatever occurred during the Immigration War wasn’t my fault. I didn’t start it, yet still, I was punished. I was supposed to die.” Socrates takes a deep, calming breath. “But I didn’t.”

Gregor motions to me from the corner of my eye, but I pretend I don’t see him.

“It’s not just me who was affected by this law. I have a little brother, Max, and a sister, Rosie. Seven years ago, she turned five and was poised to enter the Surrogacy program. When my parents heard about a First who had a particular fondness for young girls, they panicked. Two weeks later, the day before his Visit, she disappeared into the forest. Someone from the Live Once group was supposed to hide her and keep her safe, but that person was late. In desperation, my parents sent her on alone.” Socrates lets out a harsh, angry laugh. “They’d rather her brave the elements and wild animals than be chosen by one of you.”

“If that’s the truth,” someone from the audience shouts, “then why isn’t there any proof? This is all some Lifer propaganda!”

The crowd rumbles. My gaze travels from one face to another. Some are shocked, some enraged, and some maintain a mask of boredom, though I bet they’re anything but.

Socrates ignores them. “If you went to Chesaning farms, you’d see a picturesque place with rolling green hills, fields flush with grain, shiny red barns, and a majestic white manor house. But under that polished exterior is a hidden world. If you go to the edge of the property, you’ll find a playground, abandoned and neglected.”

A tall man in an elegant black suit stands up near me in the back of the room. “What’s your point? Stop wasting our time!”

Socrates frowns, but other than that minute movement, he remains expressionless. “The swings are empty, pushed by breezes rather than mothers’ hands. The slide sits unused, and the jungle gym is home to spider webs and a hornet’s nest. However, the playground is far from empty. Everywhere you look, there are little wooden crosses in memory of the children we’ve lost. Some are wood, some are metal, and a few are mismatched pieces of plastic found in the woods. Many are hand carved with names and dates. A few have faded stuffed animals slumped at their bases, while others have been knocked over. Several of the names are worn off, not from age but from family members lovingly tracing the engraved letters with their fingers.” She stares the podium before lifting her attention to the crowd again. “We aren’t allowed to bury our dead, so this is all we have left to remember them by.”

Another speaker, a portly older man, stands up and cups his hands around his mouth. “You’re just trying to get sympathy for the Rebels.”

The young woman next to him tugs on his sleeve, trying to get him to sit down. He brushes her off. “Don’t you see?” He gestures at the crowd. “He’s a Lifer, just like his wife, George Eliot. Why should we believe a word he says?” A man on his other side jerks the speaker back into his seat.

Socrates shifts from one foot to the other. Sweat beads on his forehead, and he takes a deep breath. “I don’t know why Socrates picked me. I’m nothing special. I’m just a farm girl with no unique talents except a knack for getting into trouble and letting my mouth run away from me. But he did pick me, just as he chose all the others. And kids are a dime a dozen on the farms.

“Yes, I am Mira, but that’s not my only name. I’m also Milissa, Donovann, Stephan, and all the other faces that stare back at me from the mirror every day. I’m even Socrates sometimes, when I have to be.” He cracks a self-deprecating smile. “All these souls that were once separate beings are now united within me. Their memories are my memories. Their pasts are my past, all the way back to my own son, Adam. His death was an accident, but I’m sure he would have chosen to live if given the chance. These children had no choice even though we disguise it with fancy words and grand gestures of sacrifice and honor. These people, my people, deserve to be free. Haven’t they suffered enough? Hasn’t Rosie?”

“Liar!” The second speaker struggles to stand, but his companions hold him back. My own fury peaks. I should have known Socrates would use Mira’s personal tragedies to further his own goals. He is a First, after all. They’re all the same in the end.

Socrates steps back from the podium. His hands are shaking, but he holds his back stiff and straight as he crosses the stage. At the top of the steps, he falters, as if he recognizes someone. Then the First shakes it off, pastes a grim smile on his face, and enters the stunned crowd. As quickly as I can, I follow him.

Mira

Tanner? I scan the audience as I weave through the tables. That couldn’t have been him. I must have been mistaken. It’s not possible. He’d die if he left the farm.

“Why can’t you leave?” The dust motes in the barn air float around us, making a hazy halo around his head in the late afternoon sun.

Tanner pulls up his sleeve and shows me a small silver bracelet wrapped around his wrist. A red light blinks at the top. My fingers graze its sleek surface, and he flinches. “Don’t. It’s no good. It’s fused to my skin.”

I jerk my hand away. “What is it?”

“It’s the latest fashion accessory for the criminally charged. Well, more like a warning. Be a good little Texan and no one gets hurt.”

“Is it a bomb?”

“No, thank goodness. But I was told it’s a perimeter tracker and contains a healthy dose of neurotoxin to boot, so if I try to leave the farm, even one step outside the boundaries, I’m dead.”

My steps quicken, and I ignore several people who try to talk to me. It must have been an illusion. That momentary flash of chestnut hair and broad shoulders must have belonged to someone else.
No.
I saw him; I swear it. His hair was shorter than the last time I’d seen him, his face thinner, more gaunt, but his eyes were the same.
Why would he be here? Am I going crazy?

I stand on my tiptoes to try to see around the crush of people milling at the back of the hall, but I’m shorter than most of them and can’t see anything worthwhile. If that person really was Tanner, he’s long gone now. I reach the double doors and tug one ornate brass handle. A strong hand grabs the door above mine and pulls it the rest of the way open. Will.
I can’t do this right now. I can’t deal with him.
Ignoring him, I dart out through the opening and into the hall.

Out in the hallway, I stand on my tiptoes and search for a face as familiar as my own brother’s, but he’s not there. Disappointment saturates every bone in my body.
Stop being such an idiot, Mira. He’s not here.

“What was that about?” Will grabs my arm, his grip like a vise. I spin around, and my heart leaps into my throat. I try to jerk my arm out of his grasp, but I can’t. The rage simmering in his eyes scares me a little bit. “How could you take advantage of… of her sacrifice to play your stupid little political games?”

“Will, what are you—”

“Save it, old man.” His fury twists his face into a sneer. “I’ve protected you, I’ve served you, and I’ve been willing to risk my life for you, all because Mira asked me to. And this is how your repay her? She was a better person than you’ll ever be, you sick, disgusting—”

Without even thinking about it, my hand cracks against the side of his face with enough force to turn his head. “How dare you talk to me about taking advantage of someone.” He lifts a hand to his cheek. “You made Mira fall in love with you while you were stringing Evie along. If anyone’s sick and disgusting, it’s you!” I spin around to stalk away and that’s when I finally see Tanner, staring at me from under a shadowy doorway. He’s here.