HER THOUGHTS SPUN as she followed Leroy along the dark road’s narrow shoulder. Their conversation in the car was still tumbling through her thoughts. Was she doing this for them? For Ace or Evie or herself?
Or was she doing it for all of humanity? All the people who were too blind to see how they would be better off without the Council. Without the Renegades.
Maybe, she told herself, it can be both.
She wasn’t sure when she’d started to think of the Anarchists as her family. Certainly not during those initial months when she had loved only Ace, and thought only of her parents and her sister and herself. Though they had all occupied the same spaces within the cathedral, she had seen the Anarchists more like phantoms passing her in the nave or arguing in the cloister. There had been more of them then. Many died during the battle, some that she never even knew the names of. And by and large, they all ignored the foundling child Ace had dragged back with him. They were not mean to her—Ace would not have tolerated that—but they didn’t go out of their way to be kind, either.
Once they were relocated to the tunnels, though, that began to change. There were so few of them left, all suffering the same defeat. It bonded them tighter than they had been before, even to little Nova. Suddenly, the remaining Anarchists took an interest in her.
Leroy learned about her interest in science and started to teach her chemistry, allowing her to play with his lab equipment and test out different concoctions. Ingrid trained her how to fight, with bare hands and whatever weaponry they could scrounge or barter for. Honey, afraid they were going to end up raising another savage like Winston, made it her purpose to guide Nova into being a lady … or at least the sort of lady who knew how to mix a proper martini and apply eyeliner without stabbing herself with the pencil. As for Winston, for a while he became Nova’s only playmate, telling her fairy tales with shadow puppets and teaching her the fine art of hide-and-seek, where their new home offered endless hiding places.
And Phobia was … well. Phobia was Phobia.
He had never warmed to her, but then, he never seemed to warm to anyone else, either, so Nova learned even at a young age not to take his indifference personally.
Leroy approached a small, weary-looking dock. Nova could see the water foaming beneath them as they made their way over the rickety boards, damp with ocean spray. The air smelled of salt and seaweed and dead creatures washed up on the shore.
A single boat was moored at the end of the dock—twenty feet long, with nearly the full length of it taken up by an enclosed cabin. Its sides were speckled with barnacles and its flat roof was loaded with wooden travel trunks and a single rusty bicycle. A plastic chair sat on the small deck at its bow beside an empty wine bottle and a withered tomato plant sticking up from a repurposed milk jug.
There was no light coming from inside the boat and Nova wondered if they were expected.
Leroy reached over the edge of the dock and knocked on one of the dark windows.
From inside the boat, Nova heard the sounds of footsteps and the creak of old timbers. The same window that Leroy had knocked at thunked open a few inches, letting a warm yellow glow spill out onto the dock, and Nova realized that no light had gotten through before because the windows were all painted opaque black.
A pistol jutted out from the open window. “Who’s out there?”
“It’s only me, Millie,” said Leroy. “We’ve come for those papers.”
The gun shifted to the side and a woman’s eye peered out through the opening, small and surrounded by wrinkles. She scrutinized them both. “Where was I the first time I ever met Leroy Flinn?” she said, her voice dripping with suspicion.
Leroy did not hesitate. “Rummaging through the supplies in the art department at the university. Searching for precision knives and laminate, if I’m not mistaken.”
The woman grumbled under her breath and slammed the window shut.
Nova glanced at Leroy from the corner of her eye.
“She had a run-in with a face-changer a while back,” he whispered. “Almost put her out of business. She’s been a bit paranoid about it ever since.”
The door at the end of the cabin swung open and the light from inside cut across the water. “Come in, then,” the woman said. “Quick now, before anyone sees you.”
Nova glanced around. There was nothing but cliffs and empty road and the ocean in every direction. Leroy’s lone yellow car was the only sign of civilization in sight.
Leroy stepped over the rail onto the deck and slipped into the cabin of the houseboat. Nova followed, shutting the door behind her as she looked around.
The cabin was narrow and crammed so full of stuff that Leroy had to turn sideways to fit down the aisle, following the woman as she made her way to the back of the boat. Open shelving covered the walls, sporting everything from cleaning supplies to cans of food to more wine. A wood stove in the far corner was the source of the light and an encompassing warmth that tipped just slightly toward oppressive. To her left, the wall was lined with more shelving units and storage crates of all shapes and sizes, many stacked with dishes, pottery, and piles of neatly folded towels. To her right, an assembly of old printers and computer monitors, scanners and an office copy machine, a laminator, boxes of blue latex gloves, and stacks and stacks and stacks of paper of all different colors and thicknesses. A maze of string crisscrossed overhead, down the full length of the cabin, hung with drying laundry and a variety of paper documents.
“Millie,” said Leroy, pausing behind the woman as she set the gun down on top of a filing cabinet and started to remove a few sheets of paper from one of the lines, “I’d like you to meet Nova. Ace’s niece.”
“I know who she is,” said Millie, thunking the edges of the papers together to level them, then pulling an empty folder from a desk drawer and sliding them inside. “Welcome aboard, Nova McLain.”
“Um. Artino, actually.”
Millie peered around Leroy and held the packet toward her. “Not anymore.”
Taking the packet, Nova flipped open the folder and looked at the top sheet. It was a birth certificate, as simple and unembellished as those created during the Age of Anarchy tended to be. With few doctors’ offices left to perform deliveries, many women gave birth at home with the help of a midwife, who may or may not have had professional training, who may or may not have cared to complete any sort of paperwork afterward, especially when there were no governmental departments expecting such paperwork to be submitted. Nova knew that both she and Evie had been delivered at home, but as far as she knew, her parents had never gotten a certificate for either of them.
This document, though, looked as professional as the ones that came from the era, stamped and signed by a one Janice Kendall, midwife. It included signatures from her imaginary parents, Robert and Joy McLain. It included her birthday, and it actually was her birthday—May 27—perhaps so Nova would be less likely to give the false date should anyone ask for it.
And, printed in neat handwriting in the center of the page, was her name.
Almost.
Nova Jean McLain
“Do I look Scottish?”
“Your father was Scottish,” said Millie, opening the bed of a scanner and pulling out a sheet of paper. “You take after your mother.”
Nova opened her mouth to refute—her dad was Italian, her mom Filipino, and she liked to think she was a strong mix of them both—but she stopped herself. What did it matter what the world thought her name was, or where she got her blue eyes or her black hair? What did it matter if anyone thought her parents were Robert and Joy … whoever they were.
She couldn’t walk into the Renegades trials with the name Artino, and Nova Jean McLain was as good a secret identity as any.
She lifted the birth certificate. The next page was the required application to participate in the Renegade trials. It had been filled out using an old typewriter.
Name: Nova Jean McLain
Alias: Insomnia
Prodigious Ability (Superpower): Requires no sleep or rest; maintains full wakefulness at all times without any decline in aptitude from sleep deprivation.
“Insomnia,” Nova muttered. It wasn’t exactly the sort of name that would strike fear in the hearts of her enemies, but it wasn’t bad, either. She wondered if Leroy had come up with it, or Millie.
“There’s a spot on the last page for your signature,” said Millie, holding out a ballpoint pen. “Don’t sign the wrong name, now.”
Nova took the pen without looking up. Outside, the waves drummed a steady, crashing melody against the side of the boat. “I live on East Ninety-Fourth and Wallowridge?” She frowned. “Are there even habitable homes in that area?”
“Would you rather I put ‘subway tunnel off the defunct Mission Street station’?” said Millie.
Nova glanced up. “I just don’t want anyone to come investigating me and find out the residence in my paperwork is actually some convenience store that burned down twenty years ago or something.”
Millie cast an annoyed look at Leroy, who returned a placating smile.
“I am not an amateur,” she spat. Bending over a nearby desk, she started to sort the scattered pens, sticky notes, and razor blades into a collection of tin cans. “Should anyone come looking for you, they will find a two-bedroom row house that has been owned outright by Peter McLain for more than forty years.”
“Who’s Peter McLain?”
“Your uncle,” she said. “On page three, you’ll find a two-hundred-word personal essay on how grateful you are that he took you in after your parents’ untimely deaths.”
“Okay, but who is he really?”
“No one. A figment of my imagination. A phantom, existing only in paperwork. Don’t worry—all the paperwork will match up. As far as anyone knows, the house really is owned and occupied by Mr. McLain, and now his niece.”
Nova glanced at Leroy, but he was watching Millie. “The application required personal references, I believe? What did you find for those?”
“A grade-school teacher who thought Nova was a delightful student to have in her class,” said Millie, “and an old boss who saw it as a horrible loss when Nova chose to leave his employment, but who is thrilled to see her pursuing her dream of becoming a Renegade.”
“An old boss?” Nova flipped to the next page, where she saw that Nova Jean McLain had been working at Cosmopolis Amusement Park up until a month ago. “I’m a ride operator? Come on. A chipmunk could do that job.”
“Both references,” continued Millie, as if Nova hadn’t spoken, “are legitimate sources. True working civilians in this community who have graciously agreed to praise Miss McLain quite highly should they receive further inquiry about her.” Her gaze slipped toward Leroy. “Of course, you’ll be paying them for the honor.”
“Naturally,” said Leroy, looking down at the application. “Winston used to operate a side business out of Cosmopolis Park. I think he might have known this gentleman.”
Millie nodded. “His personal dealings fared much better under anarchy than the Council. It was not difficult to persuade him to this cause.”
Nova’s gut tightened as she read through the application, and she didn’t think it was from the constant swaying of the houseboat. It felt like there were too many holes in this hastily constructed life. An uncle she’d never met. Parents she felt no connection to. A teacher and an employer, a house and a job, and any one of them could be proved false if someone only bothered to dig a little deeper.
She had to remind herself that everyone born in the Age of Anarchy had holes missing in their records. All those things that had kept society organized before had been stripped away—from medical records to school enrollment, tax forms to bank statements. There was none of that. Only people trying to survive. To go on with life as best they could.
No one would think twice about where she lived or who she lived with or whether or not her old teacher was lying when she called Nova a delight.
The Renegades cared about finding the best prodigies to make their organization stronger, smarter, better. If she got in, all she would have to do was persuade them that she was worth keeping, and no one would care about her past or her connections.
They wouldn’t think to dig any deeper until it was too late.
“I trust it’s all to your satisfaction?” said Millie, looking not at Nova, but Leroy.
He nodded and pulled a roll of cash from an inside pocket. Millie took it and undid the rubber band, counting it out before rolling it back up. Nova watched it disappear in her fist with a new weight settling on her shoulders. She had not considered payment, or where that money would come from, but of course Millie would want something for her services. Seeing the transaction made this whole scheme seem suddenly very real. That was money Leroy had worked for—whether by selling legal substances for killing off vermin and pests, or less legal drugs and poisons distributed into the underground markets. Either way, it was his toil and hardship, and she felt a twinge of responsibility to see how very little all that money had gotten them.
One false identity. A name, an address, a past.
A single chance for Nova to enter the Renegade trials and become their spy.
“Don’t forget to sign the application,” said Millie.
Turning to the last page, Nova pressed the application against the top of the copy machine and clicked the ballpoint pen.
“McLain,” Millie reminded her.
Inhaling deeply, she scrawled a signature across the bottom line. Nova Jean McLain.
She held the pen back to her, but instead of taking it, Millie grasped Nova’s forearm and yanked her closer. Nova’s body tensed, readying for a fight, but the woman merely bent over her wrist, inspecting the bracelet.
“David Artino’s work?” she murmured, her voice tinged with awe. She traced one finger along the chain of the bracelet. Her lashes fluttered, her brow knitting as if in deep concentration. “He was indeed a master.” She flipped Nova’s arm over and shot her a sly look, tapping her pinkie nail against the bracelet’s clasp. “And he certainly was a handsome young man, wasn’t he?”
“Excuse me?” Nova stammered.
Leroy turned a mildly interested look toward Nova. “What handsome young man?”
“I don’t…” Nova hesitated, picturing a relaxed smile and warm fingers wrapped softly around her wrist. She scowled and ripped her arm away from Millie. “No one. He was no one. Just some guy.”
Tittering, Millie took the pen from her. “That’s all, then. Good luck, Insomnia.”
Still frowning, Nova snapped the folder closed. “Yeah, thanks.”
She turned, winding her way back through the cabin. Leroy shuffled after her, moving slow as not to knock over any of the teetering piles.
“Out of curiosity,” said Millie, when they were nearly to the door, “what will you do about the fingerprints?”
Nova glanced back. “Fingerprints?”
“We’ll take care of it,” said Leroy. Reaching past Nova, he shoved open the door, letting in a surge of salted air.
“They need fingerprints?” said Nova, stepping back onto the dock. The boathouse door slammed shut behind them, and a second later, she heard the click of a lock.
Leroy scuttled past her, his head ducked against the spray coming off the water. “They will run a fingerprint scan at the trials, yes.”
Nova followed after him. “But … the gun. They have the gun I used at the parade. They must have tested it for prints and entered them into their database by now. If they scan me at the trials, they’ll know.”
“If the prints match.”
“Of course they’ll match!” She paused. “Wait. Why wouldn’t they match?”
Leroy’s footsteps quickened as he made his way up the dock, back to the shore and the road, eager to get out of the blustering wind. Nova kept pace, waiting, but he still had said nothing by the time they reached the car and slipped inside.
“Leroy,” said Nova, shutting her door. “Why wouldn’t the prints match?”
He did not look at her as he said, “Because we are going to alter yours.”
Her fingertips tingled with subtle apprehension. “How?”
Leroy turned to her with a hesitant look, like he knew he should have brought this up before. But before he could respond, Nova figured out precisely how he meant to alter her fingerprints.
Her gaze dropped down to the hand he had settled compulsively on the car’s stick shift. “Oh.”
“The pain will be tolerable,” he said, in what was perhaps meant to be comforting.
But it wasn’t the pain that worried her. “Won’t it be suspicious? To go in there with mutilated fingerprints?”
“Not as suspicious as a perfect match to the prints on that gun would be.”
She gave him a wry look.
Leroy sighed. “We will make sure you have a plausible explanation,” he said. “But … if you don’t want to do it…”
“Of course I’ll do it,” she said, more angrily than she’d intended. “It will hardly be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Leroy gave her a look that bordered on pity, then he lifted his hand, like he intended to give her a high five. The dome light inside the car hadn’t clicked off yet, and under its sickly yellow glow, Nova could see the poison start to leach out of his skin. First beading up in tiny pinpricks, then oozing together until his fingertips were coated in a blackish film. Nova didn’t know if it was some sort of poison or acid that his body discharged, or some chemical entirely unique to his own physiology.
It didn’t much matter.
She inhaled, bracing herself. Then she lifted her own hand and pressed her fingers into his.