Immunity Index, Sue Burke [accelerated reader books txt] 📗

Berenike sat across from her, picking out a spot on the bench without splinters. Take some deep breaths. Be calm, centered—not angry, which she would be if she thought about the situation for a moment.

Deedee owed her, and she was about to kick her out. Deedee’s employer had placed limits on her paycard—every employer had the right to limit their employees’ purchases based on the deeply held religious and personal values of the owners/corporation and other sorts of other I-own-my-workers-night-and-day bullshit. Berenike couldn’t use hers to buy alcohol, among other things, but she could buy over-the-counter birth control, and Deedee couldn’t. So she bought it for Deedee, who ought to be, well, maybe not grateful but at least have some sense of solidarity—although everyone had stopped trusting everyone else a long time ago. Denouncing paycard cheats was a common trope in crappy movies.

Finally, Deedee spoke. “I saw a video with someone who looked just like you in it.”

Berenike tried to match her matter-of-fact tone. “I saw it, too.”

“You know what that means.” Her tone said that she knew exactly what.

“Yeah.”

“Do you? Because really, it doesn’t mean much. Not to me. I know, there’s laws and stuff, and what people say, but that’s not true. You know that, right? You know that you’re okay?” Deedee actually seemed worried about her. Solidarity? Maybe.

I’m okay? In what way? “The laws and stuff matter.”

“For now. Maybe not for much longer.”

What? Does she know?

“I mean,” Deedee said, “there’s a lot wrong, too much, and…” She shrugged. “It can change to … the way it used to be.”

To old-fashioned freedom. Yes, she knows. And she was one of the least political people Berenike knew. She’d once said in complete seriousness that a fast-food chain called Food Fed must be run by the federal government because it had the word fed in its name. Apparently, someone had recruited her. Berenike hadn’t. That was one of the rules. Try to keep a low profile so that the size and scope of the mutiny will come as a shock to the system, especially if your role will be crucial.

“I hope things can change,” Berenike said, “because I’ll be in a lot of trouble otherwise.”

“You’re not in trouble with me. And I think, not with the rest of us, the other roommates. There’s facts, Berenike, I know that, even if I don’t always know what they are. I don’t know a lot of things, and I think I ought to be able to find them out.”

“Yeah. It’s hard to know what’s true.”

“Did you hear about the cold?” Deedee said. “The Prez says there’s a cold going around, a common cold? Not the Sino cold. Don’t worry, he said. Do you believe that?”

Berenike felt safe enough to let sarcasm drip into her voice. “I thought he said the flags would stop the cold.”

“Exactly. That’s bilge. Hey, do you know what’s his real name, the Prez?”

Interesting question, and not one he likes people to ask. “The Prez is his real name. You mean what did his name used to be? I heard—well, I heard a couple of things, but what I think is true is that he used to be…” She thought for a moment. “Nicholas Tyre, yeah, that’s it, and then when he was twelve years old his parents said they knew he was destined to become president, and they changed his name.”

“He was twelve,” Deedee repeated. She counted something on her fingers, maybe how many years had passed between the time he got the name and got the job. Maybe she had heard the details of the path he had taken to power, and how it all started when he had made himself seem smart. In his teens, he’d had a show where he answered people’s life questions, such as career choices or even whether to get a pet. The questions were screened or invented, the advice produced by a team of professionals rather than him, but he had seemed wise beyond his years if no one listened closely. He had shown that he could help people lead better lives, which turned into proof—supposedly—that he could lead the country to better times.

Berenike watched her and felt a tiny ember of hope glow in her chest. If Deedee was a mutineer, then anything was possible, even a successful mutiny.

“I hope things change soon,” Berenike said. “Or else we’re all in trouble.”

Deedee smiled, and she had a beautiful smile. “Be ready. It’s going to be big. So now we better get back before our phones miss us.”

Avril came back to her room after morning classes and an off-campus lunch, having learned that Hetta was in Minnesota with a crew doing some sort of bird-migration study. But she’d be back tomorrow. That wouldn’t be too late, Avril hoped. She didn’t want the protest to start without her.

Shinta was sitting on her bunk bed and looked up when Avril entered.

“We need to talk.” She didn’t look happy.

“What about?” She’d kept the room clean and been a model roommate. As she set down her backpack and sat at her desk to face her, she tried to steel herself for whatever accusation was coming. Maybe she’d somehow heard about Avril’s mutiny ambitions.

“You’re a clone, aren’t you?”

What? That—that didn’t even make sense. “I am not.”

“Then what about that video?”

“What video?”

“I’ll show you.” Shinta held up her wrist and turned on the phone’s display. Avril leaned forward. A woman was riding a woolly mammoth, and when she turned to wave at whoever was recording the video, her face looked exactly like Avril’s.

Exactly.

“It happened today,” Shinta said, “up in Wausau. A hundred miles north of here. My classmates told me she used to attend college here, and they used to see her.” She lowered the phone. “Two people can’t look that much alike by accident.”

I’m not a clone. How could I be? Avril said, “I don’t know anything about that. Maybe it’s a fake. It’s easy to fake a video.”

“Maybe, but people knew her.” She sat down at her