If she still even thinks about me.
“Operation Nonna,” I murmur to myself.
The minutes tick down with excruciating slowness. I pace the length of the small apartment, my nerves getting the better of me.
Finally, at a minute until noon, all the lights go dark. The only illumination comes from the line of windows overlooking the river. All around me, apartments power down. A distant TV cuts off; a radio fuzzes out; the drone of air conditioners goes silent.
It is the silence that always unnerves me. Cities shouldn’t be quiet.
The VA speaks up. “Blackout conditions recognized,” it says in that pleasant feminine voice. “I am running on battery power and the building is using backup generators. Doors will operate as usual. Your water and refrigerator will remain on, but please limit your use of them. Air-conditioning is restricted to certain public areas. Should you need help regulating your body temperature, please visit the security office.”
Edgar speaks with contempt. “Thank you. We could never have figured that out on our own.”
“Oh, be nice to it,” I say. “It’s not the machine’s fault it isn’t built from faster-than-light silicon magic like you are.”
I can almost hear Edgar’s machine whir with irritation. “It is not magic, it is—”
“Boring lectures later,” I say, rising to my feet. I wave my hand in front of the apartment’s door sensor. “We’ve got a little light stalking to do.”
4
The blackout covers the city like a wool blanket. It’s oppressive and stifling after only a few moments.
I carefully glance from side to side before stepping from my apartment. With Nonna next door, I have to be careful. I can’t risk her seeing—or worse, recognizing—me. I look different than before. I’m three years older, and after the car crash, several parts of me had to be reconstructed. But I still worry.
I gesture, activating my ringware. My visor’s apps boot up, screen flickering into view. As an extra layer of disguise, I type in a command to my smart-dye app. Every other week, I use a specialized conditioner that hooks up to my visor via the Wi-Fi. My hair has been an inky black since San Francisco, but now I choose something that the old me would never have worn: a hot pink. The pigment shifts at the roots and descends until every strand is the same cotton-candy hue.
Now I look even less like myself.
“All right,” I murmur, striding toward the stairs. “Here’s the plan: We break into the mail room first. Nonna still gets some paper mail.”
Edgar buzzes overhead. “Doesn’t that cost extra?”
“She’s old-fashioned,” I say. “Likes to keep her bills and stuff. She says computer files are too easily deleted.”
The expansive sweep of the lobby is dominated by the pool. The faux-marble floor is illuminated by reflected sunlight, and the scent of chlorine and water hangs in the air. The scent throws me back into childhood: summer days at a community pool, fingers sticky from holding a lime snow cone, the shrieks of other kids.
The same security guard from last night sits behind a desk. Now that I’m more awake, I commit his appearance to memory—late middle age, dark hair, fair skin tanned along his face and forearms from years without sun protection, and a comfortably paunchy belly. I give him a bright smile as I walk by, and he acknowledges me with a tip of his chin.
There is a girl in the pool, splashing under the watchful eye of a young man that looks like her older brother. He sits on a pool chair, absentmindedly scratching at his left hand while the girl attempts a backstroke.
As I walk by the pool, a splatter of water hits my visor. I flinch and take half a step back.
The boy’s gaze flashes to me. “Sorry,” he calls.
I use the edge of my sleeve to clean my visor. “It’s fine.”
He offers me an apologetic smile. “I’m trying to teach my sister a combat side stroke without actually getting in the water. Splashing around is the best she can manage.”
“Hey!” says the girl, offended.
Once my visor is clear, I get a better look at him. He’sabout my age. His skin is lightly tanned and his dark hair swept back behind one ear. He’s disarmingly attractive and I’m glad for my opaque visor; he can’t see me staring.
His electron-ink tattoo gleams bright silver against his left hand. My visor snags on the barcode of slender lines, and the ID software appears at the corner of my vision.
Eames Ahlberg. Age 18. Graduated from high school in June. Address is the Waterfront Jewel at—
I flick the app away. Looking at this boy’s identity and history feels like an invasion of privacy. He’s not my target.
