If so, what is he?
The Administrator has no identicals, because when she ascended to her position as the head of Management, her genome was retired—a rare and extraordinary honor. But everyone else is one of many. A part of the whole. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.
Trigger shrugs. “Most cadets have scars by the time they get promoted to year thirteen,” he says. “So we’re all alike, in that we’re each a little different.”
My eyes close as I try to puzzle through that. Soldiers are all different from their identicals. They fit in because they’re different.
That’s so absurd it almost makes sense.
“Any other questions?” Trigger says, drawing my thoughts back from where they’ve wandered. “We may be stuck here awhile.”
“What happened to Mace 7?” I ask. “How was he punished?”
“Um…I think he had to mop our entire dormitory floor for a month. Or maybe he scrubbed toilets. Those are the most common punishments at our academy.”
There are common punishments at the Defense Academy? I can count on one hand the number of times a girl from my division has required punishment.
For a moment, I can only stare at Trigger. “Why—”
But then the lights come back on, blinding us with the sudden glare. I stand as the elevator lurches into motion again and begins to descend smoothly toward the lobby level. One glance at the camera overhead confirms that it’s functioning. I can’t ask Trigger 17 my last question, and I will probably never know the answer.
I don’t even dare look him in the eye.
When the doors slide open, we are greeted by a small crowd of Management members in dark suits and skirts and mechanics in gray coveralls. Cady 34 looks relieved to see me in one piece, but the quick flick of her gaze toward Trigger 17 is telling. She knows we were trapped in the dark together for nearly an hour, with nothing but fear to feed growling bellies and wandering minds. But there’s no evidence that we broke any rules.
“Your work honors us all,” Trigger says, gesturing for me to precede him into the lobby, and his voice is the epitome of professional detachment. There is no sign of the boy who risked punishment to distract me from terror and panic.
I give him a formal nod and try to follow his lead, even though my guts are twisting with fear and my lungs feel ready to burst with a strange, exhilarating excitement.
We have a secret.
In my entire life, I’ve never had a secret more important than having seen Iris 5 take an extra cookie from the snack tray back in the primary dorm.
Even if I never see Trigger 17 again, he and I have this secret to share. I am on fire with the knowledge that we broke one of the most consequential rules and no one else has any idea. Or at least no one can prove what they might suspect.
I don’t know what to do with that knowledge, other than swallow it and let it warm me from the inside. So that’s what I do.
“Thank you for your service.” I step into the lobby, and Cady 34 guides me away from the elevator, giving me instructions for how to get a late lunch and make up the class time I’ve missed. As she ushers me toward the front door of the Management Bureau, I glance back to find Trigger standing alone. He is a cadet, and cadets must be independent and creative. He will procure his own missed lunch.
Maybe he’ll pluck peaches and dig up carrots growing in the wild.
His gaze meets mine and he smiles—just the tiniest upturn of lips I no longer hesitate to label beautiful. Then he turns and walks off in the opposite direction, and I know that though I may see his face all over the city for the rest of my life, I will likely never see Trigger 17 again.
‘I wake up with a strange ache in my chest and Trigger 17’s face lingering behind my eyelids, and though I’ve woken in the same bed since the day I was promoted to Dahlia 11, for a moment I have no idea where I am. Then Poppy comes into focus, leaning over me from the side of my bunk. Her hand is on my shoulder. Her frown is trained down at me, and when I see that she’s already dressed, I understand.
I’ve overslept. Again.
“Dahlia, we’re going to be late,” she repeats, and I practically throw myself out of bed onto the floor. A future instructor would never be late.
“What’s going on with you?” Violet demands as I pull a gray dress from the closet we share. All our dresses and shirts and pants are the same, because mass production is efficient and we are all the same size. The only variation is in our jackets and aprons, which have our names embroidered on them. “You’ve been distracted for days.”
For eight days, to be exact. Since the day I got trapped in that elevator.
“I’m just having trouble sleeping.”
“You should tell Medical,” Sorrel says from the bathroom, wiping a streak of toothpaste from her chin.
But Medical can’t know about the source of my dreams or the fear that my secret will be discovered, and the more I think about that, the more reckless my fraternization violation feels.
Yet even my mounting fear after the fact can’t diminish the thrill that travels down my spine every time I think about being stuck in the elevator with Trigger 17. Every time I see his identicals marching across the common lawn or jogging in formation. I don’t know what this feeling is. I don’t understand why my hands suddenly feel so empty. Why I reach out for him in my dreams.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I insist as I pull my dress over my head. “I just had a bad dream.”
“Is it Management?” Poppy smooths back her wavy brown hair and secures it with an elastic band. “Is this about your meeting with Cady 34?”
“Maybe.” I drop my nightclothes into the laundry chute built into the wall, where they slide toward the basement to wait for students from the manual labor division to wash, dry, and fold them. “It was unnerving, being called out by myself.” Technically that’s not a lie. “I’m just…”
Violet and Sorrel pause in their morning routines to frown at me as my thought trails into silence.
“She’s nervous.” Poppy steps into the bathroom and runs water over her toothbrush. “Because she’s being considered for an instructor position.”
Sorrel’s jaw drops open. Violet’s brow furrows above narrowed brown eyes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you, in case I don’t make it.”
Violet’s frown deepens. “But you told Poppy.”
“She tells me everything.” Poppy turns on her toothbrush and sticks it into her mouth, leaving me to dig my way out of that hole on my own.
“I don’t tell her everything. Besides, Violet, you didn’t tell me when Calla—”
“Tell us what you haven’t told Poppy!” Sorrel whispers, sinking onto her bottom bunk to put on her shoes.
“That’s not what I meant. There’s nothing to tell.” I’m starting to think I’m a terrible liar, and for the first time in my life that prospect bothers me.