Immunity Index by Sue Burke (best fiction books of all time txt) 📗

the road, and she followed. “Your mom does say hi. I’m Cal. She sent you some artwork.”

“Yeah, she said she would.” Irene tried to sound natural. They’d need to make it look like a real visit between real friends.

He looked around at the fields and the dilapidated farmhouse that Alan was entering. He coughed. “Sorry. Too much fresh air. Let’s take a little walk.”

She glanced at Nimkii. He seemed content with the greens. They began to stroll down the road—not too far. Nimkii might decide to follow.

“How many of you are there?” he demanded, suddenly no longer friendly.

She tried to make sense of the question. How many? Oh. Clones. How did he find out? And why did he care?

He frowned at her silence. “There’s another one of you on campus. A freshman from Chicago.”

Another one. She stopped in the road, blindsided by a surprise she always knew might hit her. For all that Peng had told her mother she was unique, she knew he must have sold other zygotes, and “unique” had meant environment, not DNA. Peng could be slippery that way. Another one. She’d always dreamed about meeting a clone of herself, a sister of sorts, the only truly genetic family she would have.

Faced with the real prospect, now she wanted to meet that other version of herself more than anything else. “What’s her name?”

“No one told us you were a clone.” He stood looking down at her through his visor.

“It doesn’t matter. And it’s not the sort of thing you say in public. Not these days, anyway.”

“We can’t have dupes in this.”

Dupes. “What do you mean? This is all about freedom. Equality.”

“You’ll put us at risk.”

“How? We’re as trustworthy as anyone. You know that.”

He huffed. “You might draw attention to yourself. You already have with that video. How long before people figure this out on campus?”

“How long before the mutiny?” It was a matter of days, she was sure.

“That’s not the point. There’s too many of you.” He turned to go back to his car, lifting his visor to cough, probably that non-Sino cold that was going around. “You—and your mother—shouldn’t be involved.”

She followed him, trying to hide her anger. Alan or Ruby might be watching, and they might ask questions. But he had no right … “Who is she?” He could at least tell her that.

“I’ve got to get back to Madison. I’ll give you the artwork,” he said as if it were a chore. He rummaged around in his car and handed her some stiff papers. “Here.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name’s Avril.” He got in and left, leaving her to stare at the car as it drove down the road. She knew without looking at what she held that he hadn’t delivered Mamá’s message, whatever it was.

She walked back to the pen. Nimkii had stopped eating and was watching her as if she were the only thing in the world. Behind a bale of hay to shield herself from prying eyes just in case something subversive had been included, she looked at what she had, two pieces of watercolor paper, art from Mamá, beautiful paintings of Nimkii. Nothing more.

“Call Mamá,” she told her phone. Her mother didn’t answer, so Irene left a message. “Mamá, a guy named Cal came, and he gave me two paintings of Nimkii, and that was all. And he had some things to say. You should call me.”

He was the one who shouldn’t be involved with the mutiny instead of leaving out her and Mamá.

Berenike maintained a neutral professional expression on her face appropriate for the rank of assistant manager, which her ID badge proclaimed, as a man rushed into the little franchise office. He looked angry. She slipped a finger under the counter onto the security alert button—just in case. The office in the corner of the building had a wide window facing the street as much to keep staff safe as to make it look inviting to customers.

Only one more day of this crap. If we’re incredibly lucky.

She’d been watching people walk down the street toward the pre-mutiny protest. She’d be going as soon as her shift was over, just a few more minutes, just a few blocks away. Afraid? Yes, but she’d gone to a clandestine training session months ago about protests and knew what to do if things went wrong.

Protests all around the country at the same time would be the first step toward the mutiny, letting people know that there was resistance—a safe, effective resistance, people unafraid to show their faces. Tomorrow, those same people would go to work and refuse to obey all the illegal orders—and at the protest she’d get some passwords for AutoKar to override anything corporate tried to pull.

The angry man came up to the counter and started shouting. “Those … people are using your cars. I saw them! You know what I mean.” He pointed to the south. “Right over there, at the protest.”

So that was what he was angry about. He said protest as if it were vile. This was the kind of man who’d arrest her father for his jokes—and her father still hadn’t answered her, so maybe he actually had been arrested or worse. But regardless, she had to deal with this guy.

“It’s illegal!” he said, looking her straight in the eyes, challenging her. “Your cars can’t be used for illegal purposes.”

The corporation had a canned reply she was supposed to use, already displayed on the screen facing her—the software eavesdropped—so she recited it, not looking him in the eyes as a reciprocal challenge, trying to make it sound natural, the way she’d been trained.

“We’re sorry you’re upset. Today’s event has all the necessary municipal permits and permissions, and we’re required by law to provide transportation to and from legal activities without discrimination. We pride ourselves in obeying all laws for the safety and comfort of our passengers.”

Even to her own ears, she sounded like a cold machine, which might make him angrier. She added, with additional professional neutrality, “We’re sorry