Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2) (12 page)

“The bangs and curls will soften those cheekbones and fuzz your profile, making facial recognition more difficult,” she says, snipping away. I finger a snippet of glossy brown hair as it falls in my lap.

“We can’t lighten your eyes, but we can make them more green than blue,” she says, opening a drawer to reveal rows of prescription bottles. Uncapping one, she hands me two tablets and a glass of water.

I swallow them obediently, knowing the effect will only last a couple of weeks. When Halla and I first tried the eye color changing tablets in a biology class as kids, the technology was relatively new, and it tinted the whites of our eyes a pale violet, in addition to changing the irises—mine, anyway. I remember sadly how mad Halla was that the natural brown of her irises had kept the violet from taking. I’ve heard the technology is better now. The stocks of appearance-changing supplies make me suspect I’m not the first person who has received a makeover in this former bakery.

Griselda keeps up a flow of conversation as she works, reminiscing about the bakery, her girlhood in the area, and her whole family perishing in the pandemic. She talks about Atlanta’s re-birth and the infrastructure improvements that make it easier to get around, and worries aloud about reports that the locusts have become carnivorous. It takes me a while to realize she’s not saying anything about who she is now, where she lives, or what she does for a living.

I interrupt her mid-word. “Is it hard to learn how to do that—talk without revealing anything?”

She pauses with the comb in the air, and then smiles. “Smart cookie. It comes easily for me, but most people are safer if they remain silent. Once you open your mouth and get blabbing, it’s too easy to say what you don’t intend to. Remember that.” She taps me on the head with the comb.

When she’s satisfied with my hair, she trades the comb and scissors for a syringe. “Short of surgery, this is the best I can do,” she says. “Next-gen Siligen—only available at one very specialized reconstruction clinic. It’ll only sting for a moment.”

Before I can object, she’s injecting some of the material into my lips, around my chin, and even my ear lobes. The skin around my chin feels tighter after a few minutes and when I run my fingers over it, it feels less bony.

“Now for some new clothes.” She rummages in another cabinet. “Anything but white since the whole world is used to seeing you in white.”

She’s referring to the trial. She knows who I really am. I stiffen, but then make myself relax. If she was going to turn me over to the authorities, I’d be in custody already, wouldn’t I? She wouldn’t have bothered with all this. I pinch my ear. It feels plumper. I wish I could see myself, but there’s no mirror. Griselda hands me some garments. There’s no place to change in private, so I strip off my old clothes and step into the new ones, a close-fitting jacket of burnt orange that seals down the left side of my chest, and matching leggings that flare a bit at the hem. The intelli-textile fabric conforms quickly to my curves, such as they are. I don my old boots and stand there, not sure what comes next.

“You look beautiful and, more importantly, unrecognizable. I feel like a fairy godmother.” She waves an imaginary wand. “Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.”

Chuckling, she passes me a small packet. “More eye color changing tablets and two vials of Siligen. The effects wear off gradually after a month. Your hair should be okay for six months or so. I don’t know how long you’ll need to maintain this look.”

She pauses to give me time to tell her, but I don’t know either so I’m silent. Hopefully, only until I make contact with Minister Fonner. Surely he can pull some strings to allow me to work for the Ministry of Science and Food Production as Everly Jax. Either that, or he’ll summon the IPF and I’ll be executed.  Either way, Derrika is only a stop-gap.

Griselda’s wry look acknowledges that I’m not going to tell her anything. “There’s also a ration card, in case you need it. Good luck.”

“If I need you—?”

“If you have intelligence to pass along, use this”—she hands me an infrared pen—“to put an X on the foot of the statue of President Iceneder in Olympic Park.”

“I don’t know where—”

“Find it! Don’t be so helpless.”

Her tone cows me momentarily, but I bite my lip and nod.

Griselda’s expression softens. “Someone will contact you within twenty-four hours of your leaving the mark.”

“If it’s not you, how will I know—?”

“The contact will work the phrase ‘troubles come in threes’ into the conversation. Your response is ‘we’re lucky they don’t come in fours.’”

It all feels very tenuous, subject to error, and I ask, “Will I see you again?” It would all seem so much more doable if I knew I could stay in touch with this competent woman.

She shakes her head. “I have my own mission. Further contact with you might jeopardize it. I’m afraid this is goodbye.” She holds out her hand.

I shake it. “Thank you, Griselda.”

“Good luck.”

Chapter Sixteen

An hour later, having taken a roundabout route, I’m back at the MOI building, observing it from the side this time. I decided on the walk over that since I can’t get to Fonner in his office, I’ll have to try and catch him as he leaves the building. I know it’s a weak plan and that any one of a dozen—a hundred—things can go wrong. He might come out with other people. A vehicle might pick him up and I’ll have no way to follow. He might use an exit other than the main door I can see from my vantage point. He might have already left; it’s past five o’clock. If I don’t make contact with him, I have no idea where I’ll spend the night.

I’m so busy thinking of what could go wrong that I almost miss him. He’s half a block away before I realize the lean figure in the white jumpsuit is him. He’s headed away from me and turns a corner as I’m watching. I scramble to catch up, weaving my way through the other people leaving the government buildings. I reach the corner where he turned and stand on tiptoe to see around a tall man talking to a man on a scooter.

Fonner’s out of sight by the time I edge around them and cross the street. I’m in a neighborhood similar to the one I explored earlier today, but with newer homes that look like they’ve been built on sites where older ones crumbled or were destroyed during the Between. I don’t want to draw attention by running, so I walk as quickly as I can, glancing anxiously down the first street. No one in sight. I hurry to the next one. There he is.

I break into a jog. I’m still twenty feet away when he mounts the two shallow steps fronting a house of composites, metal and polyglass.

“Proctor Fonner! I mean, Minister Fonner.”

His back stiffens and he says, “Jax.” He turns and a swift frown draws the thin black brows together. “I thought—”

I realize with a jolt that he doesn’t recognize me because I no longer look like me. I forgot. I’m closer now, looking up at him on the step. “It is me.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “Everly Jax.” I don’t want to shout my name and alert the neighbors that there’s a fugitive in their midst.

He studies my face more closely. “It is you. The hair, the chin—they fooled me for a second.”

We stare at each other for a long moment. I can’t read his face. The silvery eyes reveal nothing. He steeples his fingers and taps his index fingers together. “I’m a government minister and you’re an escaped murderer. It is my duty to report you.”

“If you were going to do that, you’d have contacted the IPF already.” I know I’m taking a big risk and I hold my breath.

One brow rises a fraction. “Perhaps you’re right. I confess to being curious about why you’re here. You have precisely five minutes to convince me not to summon the authorities. Come in.”

I hang back as he opens the door. “Is there—?”

“I live alone. You’re quite safe until I decide otherwise.”

What option do I have? I follow him inside. “How do you know
you’re
safe?” I ask once I’m over the threshold. “Maybe I’m a Defiance assassin.” We’re standing in an entryway lit by a domed skylight. Hostas, ferns and aspidistra grow in pots and the smell of damp loam pervades the space.

“Four minutes, thirty-six seconds,” he says.

I’m taken aback that he completely discounts the idea that I might be a threat to him, but then, realizing time is slipping past, I begin. “The locusts are adapting, sir. They’re becoming meat eaters. They killed two men a couple of days ago.”

“Where?”

I shake my head.

He lets it go and motions for me to continue.

“The implications are horrendous. I’m sure you recognize that. I can help. If you can get me back into a lab, onto a team working on locust eradication, I know I can help. I’ve got years of experience—”

“I’m aware.” He cocks his head and considers me. “You’ve taken a huge risk in coming to Atlanta, to me. What do you hope to get out of this? Exoneration?”

“Nothing! I just want to help. I realized I couldn’t stay with—where I was, and not put my skills to use. I know you can turn me in, have me imprisoned and tortured, even executed. I know that. It’s a risk I had to take because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to help.” My words trip over each other. I hope he can hear the desperation and sincerity in my voice.

He turns away and for a stomach-clenching moment I think he’s summoning the IPF. Then, he motions for me to follow him. We traverse a hallway and emerge into a round room with sleek blue and gray surfaces, including a molded series of attached chairs that ring a table where bubbles rise through a liquid-filled center. It's twink. Fonner sits, putting one ankle on his knee, looking relaxed. When he makes a patting motion, I perch on the edge of one of the chairs.

“You’re a curious one, AC Jax. Of course, you’re not an apprentice citizen anymore, and I don’t suppose you go by Jax.”

“Derrika Ealy.”

“Who sent you to me?” he queries suddenly, his voice sharp. He leans forward and pins me with his gaze.

“No one. You were at the trial—you supported me. I don’t know anyone else in a position to help,” I say, “except Loránd Vestor and I don’t know how to find him.”

Minister Fonner continues to scrutinize my face, but then he sits back again. “Still honest to a fault.” He lowers his eyelids and is silent for most of the rest of my five minutes. I’m getting antsy when he says slowly, “I don’t have the authority to vacate your conviction. Not yet. When I’m—if I become premier—then I could . . .”

I tighten my lips to keep from smiling. He’s going to help me.

“So you can’t be Everly Jax. You could still be from the Kube, though. We should stick as closely to the truth as possible. You’ve been training with Dr. Ronan and he has suggested your abilities would be useful to the Ministry of Science and Food Production’s locust eradication efforts. All true. In fact, I can arrange it so Everly Jax’s Kube records become Derrika Ealy’s. She’ll have your less than sterling behavior reports,” he says, “but also your test scores. I will recommend you to Emilia Alden. Oh, yes.” A smile I don’t understand creeps across his face.

“Minister Alden wanted me to come work for her,” I say.

“She wanted
Everly Jax
to work for her—prior to Jax’s murder conviction and subsequent escape in which three IPF guards were killed.” His tone is meant to put me in my place. “You are Derrika Ealy from here on out. However,” he adds with narrowed eyes, “it might be worthwhile to let Emilia in on our secret. She is one of only two or three people with the access to manipulate the records so anyone investigating Derrika Ealy’s profile will find your DNA. Not to mention I think it’s wise to spread the potential blame if anyone discovers your real identity. I don’t want her pointing the finger at me if you become a political liability.”

I don’t understand the political ins and outs. All I’m worried about is possible exposure. “What if she—?”

“I’m one hundred percent certain Emilia Alden won’t turn you over to be executed.” He ghosts a laugh. “She didn’t get to be a contender for the premiership without taking risks. If you contribute to finding a solution for the locust problem, she’ll reap the glory . . . and I’ll make sure she shares it with me.” He’s lost in thought for a moment, a somewhat unpleasant smile twisting his lips. Then, he says, “You’ll need a microchip.”

He reaches for my arm and turns it so he can observe my forearm.  Tracing an index finger lightly down the short scar, he says, “As I thought. You cut it out.”

I nod. “When we left the Kube.” I remember Wyck’s knife blade wiggling the microchip identifier out of my arm. I pull my arm away and rub the spot.

Minister Fonner stands abruptly. “This will take a couple of days. You’ll stay here. You will not go out or contact anyone. Remember, I can always ‘discover’ your true identity and hand you over to the IPF. I’d be loathe to do that, Jax—Ealy—because I like you. I couldn’t show favoritism as the supervising proctor, but I always had my eye on you. However, if you betray me, consciously or not, if you compromise my position in any way . . .”

I get the idea. I have to ask one question. “Sir, at the trial, when you said I wasn’t smart enough to plan our escape from the Kube, did you mean it?”

He looks down at me, eyes glinting. “Ealy, I think you have the potential to accomplish more than you can possible imagine. To bring down governments, to change the course of history. I do. I really do.”