Portrait of a Marshal: An Unhidden Story
Author: Lissa Price
Date: 2012-07-09T14:00:00+00:00
Keywords: C429; Usenet; Exratorrents; Kat; Young Adult; Science Fiction
Description: Are all Enders evil? Not quite. Go inside the mind of a Marshal in Portrait of a Marshal, an exclusive ebook original short story by Lissa Price. The ebook is a perfect entryway into the world of STARTERS, and a must-read for fans who've already read the novel and the first ebook original short story, Portrait of a Starter. STARTERS is receiving rave reviews, including this from the Los Angeles Times: “The only thing better than a terrific concept is one that is as well executed as Starters. Readers who have been waiting for a worthy successor to Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games will find it
Publisher: Random House Children's Books

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2012 by Lissa Price

Cover art copyright © 2012 by Michael Wagner

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

randomhouse.com/teens

STARTERSBOOKS.COM

eISBN: 978-0-307-97852-3

A Delacorte Press eBook Edition

v3.1_r1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

First Page

About the Author

Poor little Starter, what happened to you?

I look down at the body of this girl on the ground. She should be safe in her home, or dancing, or doing her homework. But she’s here, on the cold concrete of this abandoned underground parking structure that smells of mildew and oil spills.

Her clothes are torn: the pants and T-shirt, even the sweatshirt that slipped off her shoulder is ripped. Starters style. When you fight a lot, your clothes will show it. And they’re always fighting, because everyone wants to fight them. Renegades, Ender shopkeepers, other Starters. Even marshals like me. So which of these rips were already there and which were made by her killer?

I pull my scanner out of my pocket, crouch down, and run it over the rips. It comes up with dates on the small airscreen.

The most recent rip was made a month ago. Thought so. No help there.

And the bullet hole in her heart isn’t talking either. Clean entry, from a distance. All the scanner admits is that it was created two hours ago. The anonymous tip from a passerby came in ten minutes ago.

A memory flashes through my mind. Another bullet hole, another girl, another time. I push it out of my thoughts.

I focus on this girl, this Starter. She looks about fifteen. Probably been out on the streets for a year. Most Starters lost their folks about then in the Spore Wars. I run the scanner over the ends of her brown hair, which reaches past her shoulders. Last cut approximately sixty days ago. Odd. Where did she get the money for that? Maybe it was a trade. Or a friend good with scissors.

Another flash: Jenny. Blond hair, past the shoulders. Tangled.

I blink myself back to the present, squatting, holding my scanner. I scan her complete body. I watch to see if the screen blinks red for something unusual. I flick the audio switch and the readout speaks as I run it over her stomach.

“Scar from accidental trauma, five years ago. Probable cause: fall.”

I run it over her clothes from her belly button to her thighs.

“No sign of trauma.”

Nothing special comes up, so I just store the information. I choose not to use the scanner’s image capture, setting it on the ground as I take out my phone. I shoot a picture of her, then slip the phone back into my pocket so I can search the folds of her clothing. Starters often carry some small pouch. But all she has is her water bottle still slung over her shoulder and a handlite on her wrist. I scan the bottle and handlite, come up empty. I undo the handlite. Sometimes they hide paper inside the thick band.

Nothing. I hear something skitter away in the dank garage. A mouse? I stand and stretch the kinks out of my back. Oh, for the days when I was limber.

I bend and remove her shoes.

Blue athletic shoes. They’re so small, hardly bigger than my hand. It breaks my heart.

Flash: Another pair of shoes, this time pink. Torn. A few rhinestones left. A hole in the toe. Jenny’s shoes, the ones she wanted so much it hurt. I bought them for her.

I shake the pain away. I will focus.

Most Starters have almost nothing. Who thought this girl was worth an expensive bullet?

Finally, I let myself examine her face. It’s surprisingly beautiful. Her skin flawless. Starters usually have sunburns, freckles, cuts from fights.

I look at her hands. Also pale and perfect. I didn’t run the scanner over her face. The wound is the obvious cause of death, but my gut says to check. I pick up my scanner.

It tells me she’s had green laser surgery. A nose job. Also sixty days ago, the same time she had the haircut. Strange.

I lift her head and feel something on the back of it, under her hair. Carefully, I turn her head to the side and run the scanner.

“Neurochip.”

Neurochip?

“Inserted sixty-one days ago.”

I examine the rough spot of skin and see a small, slightly raised scar. I turn the scanner to magnifying mode for a closer look. A scar, all right, and two months seems right.

She’s the third victim in a month. I didn’t examine the others. Bet no one scanned the backs of their heads.

A noise like someone kicking a can pulls me away from my examination. I lower the girl’s head gently and stand. I pull out my gun.

There are no cars here on the bottom level, nothing for some crimie to hide behind. The building is abandoned, like so many after the wars. Squatters eke out existences in the empty office building above.

I look at the ramp that leads up to the next level. The noise came from there.

I take measured steps up the ramp, gripping my weapon with both hands. I feel my heart rate increasing.

No matter how many times you do it …

As I rise and can see the new level, I look one way—no cars, no people—then the opposite. There. Someone. I see a small, thin Starter. A boy, maybe fifteen, crouching in the corner.

I can’t tell if he’s about to rise or sit; he hovers on his haunches. Does he have a gun? I have to act as if he does.

“Freeze,” I say, aiming my gun at him. “Don’t move. Stay where you are.”

He stares at me. Even from this distance, I can see his eyes are wide.

I walk toward him. “Put your hands over your head.”

He doesn’t move.

I know I’m scary. Over six feet tall, muscled, tan, a full head of white hair. I’m in good shape for an Ender 108 years old, and in my uniform complete with holo-badge, I have a presence. Of course, the ZipTaser and gun accessories don’t hurt.

But this kid is either petrified or scheming to make some dumb move, because he isn’t obeying my order.

“Can’t you hear me?” I say. “Hands up.”

He scrambles off to his left. His hands appear empty.

“Stop!” I shout.

But he keeps going. I shoulder my gun and race after him. He’s blessed with young legs that don’t ache, but he’s undernourished and weak.

He’s also hesitating, thinking, wondering which way is better—up or down? That hesitation gives me catch-up time. I throw my body at him, and just before he’s out of reach, I grab his legs.

“Let me go!” he screams as we struggle on the ground.

I hold on to his belt and reach for the smartcuffs hanging from my waistband.

“Hey, man, don’t …,” he says.

I get a chance now to look at his face. He’s so thin his cheeks are sunken. His teeth are rotting. He might’ve looked okay a year ago, but the kid has been starving.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen. Almost.”

I let go of my cuffs and pull him up as I get to my feet. I keep one hand on his shoulder.

“Did you know that girl down there?” I ask.

“What girl?”

I read his face. After eighty years on the job, I can tell.

“You don’t know?” I say. “Then I’d better show you.”

I take his elbow. He doesn’t move. He stares into my eyes a moment. I know he’s reading me, to see if I’m on to him.

“Don’t,” he says softly, “please.”

“Come on.” I pull him along and we head down the ramp.

He doesn’t flinch when her body comes into view. I watch for his reaction when we stand over her.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know her. I mean, she lived here, in the building, but—”

“What happened to her?”

“How do I know, man?” His face is twisted in anguish.

I stare at him with my stony expression so he sees I mean business. “When did you find her?”

“Just before you.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I came down to go outside and heard something. Saw her lying there. I called out … she didn’t say nothing. I got closer and saw she was shot.”

“She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

“Let me go.” His eyes plead. “I didn’t have nothing to do with this. It’s just bad luck.”

I release him. He has a moment; I know he’s thinking of darting.

“You hungry?”

He doesn’t answer. Eyes me warily.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a Supertruffle. “Here.” I toss it to him.

“Wow, thanks.” He unwraps it partway and takes a bite.

He closes his eyes a second to savor the chocolate. He rocks on his heels. “That’s me, unlucky Kyle. Come across a dead girl in the morning.”

Truth is in the tone of his voice.

“How many Starters live in your building?” I let my eyes look up to the ceiling.

“This place’s pretty empty. Smells like they sprayed it. Just five of us.”

I nod. Sometimes government squads come in and spray to eliminate any active spore residue. It’s toxic for at least a month.

“That stuff will kill you. You should move on,” I say.

He finishes the Supertruffle, licking the wrapper.

“Anyone up there know more about her?” I ask. “If she had friends, family?”

“Would you live here if you had family? She just moved in a few days ago. All I know, she called herself Indie. That’s it.”

I figure he’s telling the truth. If he weren’t, he’d palm me off on someone else, suggest another Starter to talk to.

“Okay,” I say. “Get out of here.”

He doesn’t hang around. He wraps his arms around himself and backs away, too distrustful to turn his back on me. I don’t blame him, the way some marshals are.

“You’re all right,” he says.

“Stay out of trouble.”

He nods and keeps backing up. When he gets to the ramp, he turns and runs.

I look back at Indie, lying there without her shoes.

Flash: The most painful one—Jenny, the complete picture, lying there, blond hair tangled, wound to the chest, her pink canvas shoes with the rhinestones and a hole in one toe.

Shoes. Indie’s blue shoes.

I pick up one of them and lift the insole.

There, I see a corner of white.

I tear out the insole and find a card underneath. A business card.

I hold it up and a holo springs forth of teens dancing. The title projects into the space in front of the holo.

Prime Destinations—Be Somebody … Else!

The address: Beverly Hills.

“I’ll find who killed you,” I say under my breath. “I promise.”

#

I go home to my Glendale bungalow, past my barbed-wire fence. Home, sweet home. I keep the shades down. Don’t bother to turn on any lights. I wave my hand over the airscreen and check the investigating reports to see if there’s any notation of a neurochip in the three other victims. Nothing. They probably assumed the bullet wound was the cause of death. And detectives aren’t known for spending a lot of time investigating unclaimed minors.

I can’t find anything about Prime Destinations on the Pages. Strange. Maybe it’s a new company. Sounds like a travel agency, maybe one that specializes in fantasy vacations, role-playing. What would a Starter like Indie have to do with a place like that?

I cancel drinks I’d planned with an Ender lady friend. I don’t have to tell her it has to do with Jenny. She guesses. Nice to have friends who understand you.

I peel off my uniform and put on my best suit, remembering to leave my badge on the dresser.

When I get to the address, a building so shiny I’m glad I’ve got shades, I see it’s in the heart of Beverly Hills, some of the most expensive real estate around. I haven’t been here in a while. I see boarded-up shops, economic casualties of the wars, as expected. But the eye-popping jewelry stores are still there to fulfill the retail therapy needs of wealthy Enders.

The doorman lets me in. The place smells expensive. Big. High ceiling. Marble floor. The receptionist at the desk, an attractive Ender wearing red lipstick, smiles at me as I enter.

“Can we help you, sir?”

I lean on her shiny counter. I grin at her, hoping she won’t care whether this sounds like the truth.

“Maybe you can. I happened to be walking by, and I was curious about what kind of services you provide. I could use a change of pace.”

“We’d be delighted to explain it all.” She taps on her airscreen. “Our sales manager is out to lunch. Do you want to leave your number?” She holds up a small phone, waiting for me to lift mine.

I feel my pockets for my phone. I don’t really want to leave my number, but I go through the motions. A voice from a side office calls out. An electronic voice.

“I’ll see him,” it says.

“Oh. Our CEO himself will see you.” The receptionist pushes back her chair. “Right this way.”

She rises and escorts me to the office. I can’t help but notice what good shape she’s in, for her age. When we get to his door, she stops and smiles.

“Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Calm Water?”

“No, I’ll be fine, thank you.”

She leaves me at the door.

The CEO wears an overcoat and a hat. Indoors. This place is getting weirder by the minute. His back is to me. I enter his office and he turns.

Instead of a normal Ender face, he has an electronic mask molded to his skin. Thousands of pixels move across his features, making his face into a screen. There’s a blue cast to the light.

I try not to react, but it’s hard. The mask displays the face of a past president.

“I know,” he says with that metallic voice. “It’s a bit of a shock. But everyone gets used to it eventually.”

I walk closer and extend my hand. He doesn’t take it. Instead, he motions for me to sit. I realize he’s also wearing gloves.

“So you’re interested in finding out more about our services?”

His voice … I know people who suffered damage and had to use an electronic voice box. I wonder what his story is?

I nod. “If I can afford them.”

The face doesn’t smile. I guess it can’t. Wonder how he does that?

He flicks on the airscreen above his desk and a display pops up of a healthy-looking Starter.

“Would you like to be young again? Play any kind of sport you used to? All day long, with no soreness the next day?”

“Who wouldn’t?” I say.

“This donor can z-blade, ski, play tennis—you name it, he does it.”

“He looks strong enough,” I say.

“How would you like to be him? For a few days? A week?”

I wonder if he’s joking now. “How?”

“We have a proprietary process that can make it happen.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“But worth every dollar.”

He gives me the full sales pitch and I’m a complete sucker for it. If I were rich, I’d be signing up right here, right now. Not to feel my aching legs. Man, to feel young again.

“It’s completely seamless,” he says. “You’ll be accepted and believed to be a teen again. It’s truly a fountain of youth, only better.”

He shows me more images of various teens. “I don’t know about you, but I didn’t look this good when I was their age.”

“Could I be any one of them?”

He nods. “Take your pick. Be somebody … else.” He gestures to the images of the Starters.

“And these guys are compensated?”

He hesitates. “They’re more than satisfied. They’re elated.”

As I stare at the pictures of the handsome, strapping young men, I realize something that makes my heart beat faster. I should have seen it earlier.

This could be the perfect way for me to go completely and truly undercover in the world of Starters. What better way to search for the murderer of my granddaughter … and Indie, and the others?

I could never get the department to authorize this kind of expense. I would have to cover it myself.

“How much?” I ask.

I watch as he writes a figure on a contract, filling in the blank. I see the amount and for the second time in his office do not succeed in hiding my reaction. I breathe in an audible gasp, giving me away. He chuckles.

“That’s for a week,” he says.

He writes another figure, one with fewer digits.

“This would cover three days.”

It’s still high, but possible. It will wipe out my savings.

But if I find the killer, it will be worth it.

#

I return home and consider calling the friend to see if she wants a late meal. But I hang up before we connect. It’s late. I pour myself a scotch and think about tomorrow, when I get to be somebody else.

In spite of the hour, I call my supervisor and ask to take the next few days off.

“You sick, Walsh?” my boss asks.

“Yeah, I’m a sick puppy, all right.”

He gives me the time off. He’s been good ever since Jenny. He probably figures I’m doing my own investigation. But I’m positive he has no clue how I’m doing it.

#

When I return to Prime the next morning, I’m treated like a star in a process as smooth as my best hundred-year-old scotch. A nurse, the most beautiful Ender I’ve ever seen, with upswept white hair, her face delicate and calm, escorts me into a room they call my transition room. It’s about the size of a small hotel room but resembles a luxury spa. Shakuhachi music plays, the birdlike notes of the flute encouraging me to relax. The nurse tells me to change into the silk nightshirt and cashmere robe hanging inside the bathroom, and then she leaves. Not exactly my style, but they feel nice against my skin.

I emerge from the bathroom and inspect the room. A plush reclining chair takes up a good one-third of the space. There’s also a small table with an orchid on it. The walls are covered with bamboo, giving the space a Zenlike feeling.

But something’s missing.

No medical supplies.

I look around, see a door, and open it. Inside is a shallow closet filled with IVs, bags of fluids, injection guns, tape, and miscellaneous medical instruments. What else is hidden here?

I spot a cabinet beside the reclining chair. I open it and see an airscreen and a bunch of colored wires connected to small square pads. I hold one of the pads between my fingers as if it were some child’s toy.

Someone knocks on the door.

“May we enter, Mr. Walsh?” the nurse asks.

I put away the pad, close the cabinet, and go to the door. The nurse stands there with an Ender tech, judging by his white lab coat.

“This is Trax,” she says. “He will assist you.”

He has long white hair. Heavy black-framed eyeglasses balance on his nose.

“Hello.” He nods somewhat awkwardly.

I notice he’s unable to meet my eyes, which doesn’t inspire confidence. He goes to the cabinet I was in just seconds before.

The nurse takes my arm with her soft hand and guides me to the recliner. She smells sweet, like some kind of flower, but it’s faint. Subtle. Lavender? It relaxes me.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she says as I sit back. She puts a silk sheet and soft blanket over me. “Isn’t that nice?”

“Like a baby,” I say.

Trax approaches with the bunch of wires in his hands. “I’m going to place this connecting device on you. It won’t hurt. You’ll barely feel it, in fact.”

“That connects me to the computer?” I ask.

“Exactly,” he says. “This way we don’t have to do anything invasive.”

He sticks the pads to various spots on my head and neck.

“It helps that your hair is so short,” he says.

“So what do these do?” I ask.

“The mother pad receives a wireless transmission from the computer. She talks to the other pads. They all communicate to parts of your brain via omicron waves.”

“All you have to do is close your eyes,” the nurse says, rolling up the sleeve of my robe. She stands on the other side of my chair. She rubs my upper arm in a kind of caress, but I realize she’s applying a numbing cream.

“I’ll be seeing through the eyes of my donor body,” I say.

“Exactamundo,” Trax says. “The donor’s eyes can see, and that information is sent to your brain via the computer. You’ll speak words that you think of—but through the lips of your donor.”

“All you have to do is relax.” The nurse’s voice is like honey.

It almost distracts me from the injection gun she holds an inch from my upper arm. It sprays a blue light and then she presses it to my skin. I barely feel it.

I’m fading. All that’s left is the memory of lavender.

#

I dream, with total awareness that it’s a dream. At first I wonder if this is something from the mind or memory of the Starter I’m about to inhabit. A sense of dread closes in like a heavy fog. I’m chasing the killer. I think it’s a man, but I’m not sure. It could be a Starter, could be a woman, but I decide it’s a man because of the coat and hat he’s wearing. The killer climbs up a fire escape to a rooftop. I follow. I do the impossible as I chase him, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, landing in a roll, getting up, running again. I get closer. He’s about to jump again, but I grab his foot.

He falls over the side, held back by my grip. I grab a pole with my other hand so I don’t go down with his weight. I still can’t determine the killer’s identity as he dangles upside down. His hat falls off and floats two stories to the ground. A muffler hangs around his face, hiding it.

I try to pull him up with one hand, but he’s heavy. I dig my feet in against the wall. As I start to lift him, the killer reaches up and removes his shoe. He falls through the air, his coat flapping like broken wings. I grip the shoe in my hand and wonder why I feel so empty, as if I’ve lost another victim.

I open my eyes.

I’m awake, but in a new room. It’s not like the one I left my body in. It’s basic, more like a hospital room or doctor’s office. I smell lavender.

I turn to my right and see the nurse coming closer.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Great.” I jerk my head back. I sound different. My pitch is higher. Younger.

She giggles. “Everyone does that, don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”

I realize she’s looking at someone to my left. I see Trax.

“Can you lift your left arm, please?” Trax asks me.

I comply. And notice how young that arm looks.

“And your right?”

I lift my right arm. Equally young. The hand smooth. Wrinkle-free.

“You can put them down. Wiggle your left foot. Now your right.”

I pass all of his tests as he continues to examine me, shining a light in my face, asking me to follow it with my eyes, asking a series of questions. But what I really want to do is look in a mirror. I see one on the wall and I am dying to get to it.

The nurse assists me out of the chair. Is it my imagination, or is her smile different? More … flirty?

“I know what you want,” she says.

She walks me over to the mirror. My legs are just a little shaky, but when I get to the mirror I’m not thinking about them. The image in the mirror has me riveted. It’s a handsome young Starter, about seventeen years old, with a full head of wavy brown hair, a perfect, handsome face, brilliant blue eyes. I saw his picture, but that was nothing like seeing him in the flesh.

“It can’t be …,” I say, staring at my reflection.

“Move your arm,” the nurse says.

I make my right hand move up to my face and I touch my chin. And the guy in the mirror does the same exact thing.

I laugh and so does he.

“This is so …” I can’t find the word.

“Wonderful? Amazing?” the Ender nurse offers.

“Bizarre,” I say as I watch the lips of the Starter move in the mirror.

#

I walk my new body out of Prime Destinations. I’m getting smoother by the minute, swinging my arms, only misjudging the distance once, slamming my hand into a wall. Outside, in the bright light of Beverly Hills, I test my voice.

“Hello. Hello,” I say to no one but myself.

I’m wearing a nice black sports coat over a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of new black jeans. I feel in my pocket and they’ve put my wallet in there, with my car keys. I open the wallet. The driver’s license has my new picture and my new name, Trace Walsh—my real last name, and the first name of my donor body.

I walk to the city garage where I parked my car and get in. Even the new eyes in the rearview mirror spook me.

I drive out of Beverly Hills, heading south and east. I stop at a used-clothing store. I find exactly what I need, change there in the store, and emerge wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt with a hoodie over it, and beat-up jeans with worn knees. I have an old handlite around one wrist and a water bottle across my chest. Once I’m back in my car, I open the glove compartment, push aside my badge, and take out my gun. I slip it into my waistband. I also pull out my Swiss Army knife and make cuts in the T-shirt, the hoodie, and the lower legs of the jeans. I grab the fabric at each cut and pull to fray the edges.

#

I park my car several blocks from Indie’s building so no one will see. Walking down the street, I feel almost naked without my uniform. I plan to get rid of the gun as soon as I can. I can’t risk having it discovered during a fight. I take long strides. It feels so good in this body. My knee doesn’t hurt; I feel like my spine is made of rubber, it’s so loose.

I could get used to this.

When I get to Indie’s building, I try the main door. It used to be a commercial building, three levels, with heavy double doors on the ground floor. I go around to the side and find another door. I see a piece of tape sticking out where the lock is. I pull open the door.

I’m in a side hallway. I walk like I belong there and head to the back, looking for the stairs. I find them. They stink, and I take them two at a time to get out of there quickly. I exit at the second level.

I listen, don’t hear anyone. I’m facing a set of cubicles. No chairs are left and the desks are empty, but the cubicle walls remain. It feels wrong, like a ghost town, especially because I know squatters live here. I walk around the edge of the cubicles, looking in the offices that face them. If I were a Starter, I’d pick one of those to hole up in. Those rooms have doors.

The first one I pass looks unoccupied. I wouldn’t pick that one either—too close to the entrance. I pass the second one and see that someone lives there. An old tennis ball. Some T-shirts.

I sense someone watching me from behind. I stop and listen.

“Don’t move,” a girl says.

I hold up my hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “Okay.”

I turn my head to look.

“I said don’t move.”

“All right.”

She comes up beside me. I see in my peripheral vision that she’s pointing a gun at my torso. I can’t let anything happen to Trace. The girl’s breathing is ragged, a heartbeat away from an accident. I do a quarter-turn spin on my heels and reach back, grabbing her gun. I don’t need to turn it on her. She’s thin and frail.

I examine the gun. “This thing isn’t even loaded.”

“I don’t have bullets. Found it in an alley.”

Her hair is brown, wispy around her face. Her clothes are dirty and torn, baggy pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, but she’s attractive. Not the perfection of Indie, though. A few freckles dot her cheeks.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Why do you want to know?” She scrunches her face.

I remember that I don’t look like a marshal. I don’t look like an Ender. I’m a Starter, and I need to sound like one.

“Give it back, okay?” she asks, grabbing for her gun.

I hold it behind me, out of her reach. “What’s your name?”

She sighs. Looks down. “Lonnie. You?”

I have to think a second to remember my new name. “Trace. How long have you been living here?”

I scold myself for sounding so much like a marshal. Have to get better at that.

“Cool place,” I say.

“Been here a couple of weeks,” she says.

“I lost my last place this morning. Marshals.” I shake my head.

She nods. “They’re the worst.”

I hand her the gun. “Be careful.”

“Well, it’s not loaded, you saw that.”

“Exactly.”

She looks at the floor. Then I see that her hands are shaking. She’s crying.

“Hey.” I put my hand on her arm. She doesn’t pull away.

“It’s just that … I’m kinda scared.”

She’s about to open up. I ask softly, “Why?”

The words get caught in her throat.

“It’s okay.” I almost whisper the words. “You can tell me.”

She wipes away the tears. “A girl got shot yesterday.”

I fold her into my arms and comfort her a moment. She sobs into my chest.

“Did you know her?” I ask.

“Her name was Indie. She’d gone to that body bank place.”

She had to mean Prime Destinations. “Do you think that had anything to do with her getting killed?”

She shrugs. “Who knows? She said they gave her a makeover.”

“A makeover?”

“You know, green laser, the works. She looked hot.”

It made sense that Prime would want their donor bodies to be as appealing as possible. My mind flashes to the other girls.

Dawn. Lena. And then Jenny.

The other three who had gotten killed in the last two months were all pretty, which suggests a male murderer. And of course my Jenny was beautiful; she always was.

“I was going to go tomorrow,” Lonnie says. “Birthday present to myself. They pay a lot.”

“What happened to Indie’s payment?”

“I guess her killer stole it.”

That made sense. All these girls were getting paid large sums of money. Because they were unclaimed minors, they would have to get paid in cash or by cashier’s check, which could quickly become cash. That’s like a “kill me” flag on the streets today.

“Do me a favor?” I ask her.

“What?”

“Wait until your next birthday to go there.”

“You don’t think it’s safe?”

“Look what happened to Indie. And she’s not the first.”

“But I’ve got a gun,” she said, twirling it on two fingers.

“A gun with no bullets is worse than no gun at all.”

#

I spend the next couple of days investigating from morning until midnight. What little sleep I get is on the floor in the office next to Lonnie. She’s sweet. Several of us squatters celebrate her birthday by giving her a Supertruffle with a candle on top. She likes me, I know, but she has no clue I’m almost seven times her age. There’s a moment when she wants to kiss me, but I can’t see myself taking advantage of a sixteen-year-old girl who wouldn’t know she was really kissing an Ender. Much as I might like to.

I think I hurt her feelings.

She’s kept her promise not to go to Prime Destinations. But it’s time for me to go back there. My rental is up and I haven’t gotten any closer to finding the killer. I’ve talked to a lot of Starters, some of them Prime donors, some just normal kids, but haven’t found a lead. Anything that looked promising—like a Starter with a sudden influx of cash—turned out to be a dead end. But just moments before I say goodbye to Lonnie, she remembers something else.

“A few days ago, Indie was talking to some other girls. I overheard them,” Lonnie says. “She was talking about memories. Bad memories. And the others seemed to understand. I think they were all body bank donors.”

Before I return to the place she calls the body bank, I stop at a public restroom to change back into the shirt, jeans, and jacket they first dressed me in. At Prime, the receptionist tries to direct me to the transition room, but I insist on speaking to the CEO. I overhear her refer to him to another employee as the Old Man, which seems oddly disrespectful.

I’m not sure what to call him, so I don’t call him anything. He wears the image of a famous real estate mogul on his mask today.

“Everything work out?” he asks with that strange voice.

I pull out my badge. I see his body tense. He walks toward me with deliberate steps.

He grabs my badge and flings it across the room. “You used our services under false pretenses.”

I want to retrieve my badge, but he’s standing in my way. “I’m looking for a killer. One of his victims was a body donor for you.”

“Unclaimed minors get killed.” He shakes his head, leaving blue trails of light. “It’s a dangerous lifestyle.”

“They get killed in fights, but this is different. Young girls are being slaughtered. We think it’s for the money you give them.”

“Prove it.”

“I need more time to stay uncover.” I shiver. Can’t help it; the room is freezing.

“How much?”

A week. A month. But I know he won’t go for that. “Three more days.”

The Old Man shakes his head. “I never agreed to rent to a marshal.” He points at me. “That body is my property and you’re putting it in jeopardy.”

“I want this kid to stay alive more than you do.” I gesture to Trace’s body with my thumb. “Starters are dying out there and nobody else cares. You think marshals have time for unclaimed minors? Most Enders would just as soon have them eliminated like cockroaches.”

Silence. His mask makes a quiet hum, broken only by small sizzles, electronic crackles like a bug zapper.

The silence is brutal.

“You’re not on official business,” the Old Man says. “Are you?”

“No.”

He thinks for a long minute.

“I’ll let you do this. But you’ll owe me,” he says. “And someday, I’ll collect.”

I stare back at that creepy electronic face. What am I getting myself into?

“Three more days,” he says like it’s a threat.

I know enough to shut up when I’ve won. I nod, just barely.

“Take care of that body,” he says, pointing at me.

I should just leave. But I suspect he might have information I need. I pull out my phone and show him the picture of Indie.

“Do you recognize her? Her name is Indie,” I say.

He glances at the picture. “There are rules protecting the privacy of our employees.”

“And you’re following all the rules here, I’m sure.”

“Don’t,” he says, turning his head sharply. “I have your body, don’t forget. All I have to do is pull the plug.”

He puts his mask so close to my nose, I see my reflection in it. I’m barely concealing the fear that runs through me.

The Old Man spins and goes to his airscreen. He presses a few of the buttons that float in the air, typing in Indie’s name. A renter’s name appears.

I wave my phone over it and grab the name. “Margaret Surratt.”

“Don’t go bothering her. She’s a respected member of the community,” the Old Man says. “She won’t know anything.”

I glance at the photo of her. She’s wearing pearls. Looks respectable.

“One more. Jenny.” I show him a picture of my granddaughter.

He types in her name. Three photos of Starters named Jenny pop up. The photo of mine is the only one I care about. She was a donor. Oh, Jenny, why did you do this? But no time to dwell on that. The renter who comes up—also Margaret. Still with the pearls.

What kind of respected community member rents out multiple Starter bodies … and why?

#

I rush to the address the Old Man gave me. Margaret’s name came up as the renter for all of the dead girls. She’s rich, from a society family, and a deacon at her church. A real pillar of the community.

Her home is a mansion in Beverly Hills, a short drive from Prime. I park my car down the street close enough to watch, far enough so she won’t notice if she happens to look outside. Her place has a huge lawn and no gate, that sort of open feeling that suggests the people inside have so much security they have nothing to fear.

I pop my miniscope in my right eye and look at her windows. I only see two people: a housekeeper dusting the lamps inside, and a guard patrolling the grounds outside. I keep watching, hoping to catch a glimpse of Margaret.

After a while, a white sports car comes up the street. A Starter, a real looker, is at the wheel, long blond hair and a perfect face.

Perfect?

She doesn’t notice me. She zooms past and then turns into the driveway of Margaret’s mansion. It can’t be Margaret’s granddaughter, because she wouldn’t be able to return home with a Prime makeover. So odds are it’s Margaret herself, renting yet another body.

Why didn’t the Old Man tell me that? I rub the back of my neck. Maybe he didn’t know.

I wait. It isn’t long before she reemerges in the sports car, pulling out of her driveway. As she passes, I notice she has on a shimmery trance dress, the kind rich Starters wear to clubs.

And sure enough, that’s where she leads me, all the way downtown to a club for Starters. A valet takes my car, and I’m grateful Prime gave me nice clothes, because everyone is dressed to kill here. It’s called Club Rune, and maybe because it’s still early, they let me past the velvet rope. Or maybe it’s Trace’s good looks that get me in.

I see her at the bar, her tan legs wrapped around the stool, her blond hair hanging almost to her waist. I make a point not to make eye contact as I take a stool next to her. Before long, she notices Trace’s handsome face.

“Well, hello there,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Who are you?”

“Trace. What’s your name?”

Her eyes look up, as if she’s trying to remember. “You can call me Jodi.”

I’m wondering if she thinks I’m an Ender inside or just a great-looking Starter. Does she care? She certainly wouldn’t guess I’m a marshal inside.

“You come here a lot?” I ask. It’s a standard line, but I actually want to know.

“I do,” she says, sipping her cocktail. “Not always looking like this.” She gives me a wink. “And what about you?”

“It’s my first time,” I say.

“First time in the club … or first time?” she asks with a wicked grin.

“I’ve never been here before. My grandparents don’t let me out much.”

By choosing to play the real Starter, I’ll find out how far she’ll go. Her eyes light up.

“Then I should give you the special tour.” She leans closer.

A sharp, happy scent fills my nose. She runs her finger down my jacket lapel. “Would you like that, Trace?”

She draws out my name so it almost sounds dirty.

“Maybe,” I say. “What will I get to see?”

I play along, walking a fine line between flirtation and innocence.

“Just follow me,” she says, her eyes almost slits.

She pulls a wad of cash out of her bag and peels off some bills, enough to cover both of us, then places them on the bar. She slides off her stool.

I follow her as she sashays her way through the arriving partiers to a door that leads to a back hallway. It’s not meant to be seen by the customers; it’s unpainted and dark. We enter and it leads to a stairwell.

It’s dark, a little light spilling out from higher up. She stops and grabs me, pulling me to her, and presses her lips against mine. She smells like peppermint and something floral, and her lips are soft and hungry. I let her call the shots. I’m enjoying it, I admit; it’s been decades since I’ve been kissed this hard, this frantic, this desperate.

She pulls me closer, until her back is up against the wall. I let my hands caress her long, silky hair, and then something makes me stop. I pull away and look at her.

“What?” she asks. “You want someplace more … private?”

I nod. She’s my age, in reality, so this isn’t as bad as it could be. But she thinks I’m a real Starter, a boy one-fifth her age, and she knows darn well what she’s doing. And, I remind myself, she might be a killer.

“Don’t worry. I know just the place,” she says as she puts her long leg on the next step.

“There?” I ask.

She motions above with her head. “Paradise.”

I follow her up the stairs, trying not to look at her hips. I slip my hand inside my pants pocket to feel for the thin smartcuffs.

We reach the landing and turn to go up another level.

“We’ll be completely alone. No one can see us,” she says with a giggle.

She pushes open the door that says roof and we go outside. She’s right; no one can see us. The roof is large, with vents and stacks and another stairwell at the far end. There’s no other building nearby, just the ink-black night sky. The cool air blows our way and I reach for her wrist to slap the cuff on her.

But she yanks back her hand and the cuff snaps, capturing only air.

“You’re not so innocent after all.” She smiles.

I go for the other wrist and slap the cuff on it. “Sweetheart, I’m just an innocent marshal.”

She whips her other arm away before I can connect the cuffs together.

Her eyes examine my face, no doubt struggling to adjust to the fact that I’m an Ender inside. She backs away.

“How did you find me?” she asks.

I follow her very slowly, so as not to spook her. “Prime told me about you, Margaret.”

“They’re supposed to be confidential. Who told you my name?”

“The Old Man.”

She reaches behind her back, pulls a gun out of her purse, and aims it between my eyes.

For a split second I start to go for my gun, but I realize I can’t. I can’t hurt this innocent girl’s body.

“You don’t want to do that,” I said. “Margaret.”

“Don’t call me that. When I’m in this body, I’m Jodi.” She holds the gun steady. “And your name is goodbye.”

She’s about to shoot my poor donor’s body. Sweat beads on my—his—forehead.

“This guy”—I gesture to my body—“Trace, lost his parents in the wars. He needed money desperately, badly enough to rent out the only thing he had of value: himself. Please, you can’t kill him. He doesn’t know you.”

“But he could remember,” she says.

“Like your past donors?” I see a flicker in her eyes so I go on. “You did some things you’re not proud of when you were renting, and you’re afraid people will remember. Maybe the donor will remember and give you away.”

“They get replays. Memory surges. Memories that could ruin me.”

“So when you got back in your body, you killed them.”

“They’re unclaimed, who cares?”

“Not all of them.”

She moves closer to me, the gun pointed at my head—Trace’s head.

“Killing Trace won’t help,” I say. “I’ll still be around to talk.”

“Then you’ll be next.”

She starts to pull the trigger. I can’t help but squint in reflex. But she doesn’t finish. Is the gun jammed? No. It’s something else. She has the will but cannot shoot.

“I can’t do it,” she says with a puzzled expression. “I had no trouble before … as myself.”

She goes from confused to angry in seconds.

Oh. She can’t kill.

“Looks like Prime thought ahead.” I wrest the gun from her hand.

She gives me that determined look, the one I’ve seen a million times, where they know the lies and the stories won’t fly. But they still refuse to give up. They’re going to grab that sliver of hope that somehow, some way, they can squeeze through some rip in time and make a getaway.

She runs behind a stack on the roof.

I pull out my phone. “I have to talk to the Old Man, now! This is an emergency!”

He gets on the phone.

“You didn’t tell me she was renting somebody!” I shout.

“I didn’t know,” the electronic voice says too calmly.

I crane my neck to see where she’s hiding.

“Well, she is. A Starter named Jodi. Margaret’s in your place, in a chair, now.”

I see her burst out of her hiding place and run across the large roof.

“Margaret!” I shout as I pocket my phone.

She stops and turns around.

“Give up!” she shouts back at me. “Or she’s dead.”

I know what she’s doing. She’s going to run off the edge of the roof. She’s going to kill this donor, too.

“Don’t!” I shout.

“Or what?” She gives a wicked half smile. “You’ll kill her?”

She knows she has me. I wait, afraid to move. Afraid I’ll set her off. But I want to get closer. She’s going to kill her one way or the other, if not now, then later, and she’s all the way across the roof.

My legs itch to move forward. Maybe slowly? How to save this girl’s life? What can I say that will reach Margaret?

Before I can do anything else, she spins and runs for the edge. I bolt, running as fast as I can. But I see it’s impossible. I’m not going to make it. Not going to save this one.

I’ll give up Trace to save Jodi, I decide in a split second. But will I have the chance?

Margaret goes for the edge. She’s closing in. Almost there, carrying poor Jodi’s body to her death.

She gets to the edge. But just before she can take that fatal leap she slumps to the ground.

My heart stops. I run to her and kneel down.

She’s unconscious. Her head is scraped and bleeding from where she hit the ground. I feel for her pulse. It’s there.

“Jodi,” I say, gently patting her hand.

Her eyelids flutter. She moves her head from side to side, then opens her eyes. They’re full of fear.

“Jodi?” I say.

She tries to sit up.

“Easy,” I say.

She’s clearly disoriented, but is starting to trust me. I help her into a sitting position.

“What happened?” she asks, fragile as a fawn.

I lean in and hold her in a tight hug. “You’re all right,” I whisper into her ear. “You’re safe.”

I close my eyes and hold her to me for a long time. The girl I saved. The other faces flash through my mind, the ones I couldn’t save—Dawn, Indie, Jenny—but they’re not angry. They’re grateful.

#

I stand high on the hillside, not far from the Hollywood sign, a few yards from my car. It’s another world up here, with the earthy scent of the sweet dry grasses. I’m back in my own old, tired Ender body. I bend my aching legs and squat to dig a hole in the dirt with my hands. When it seems deep enough, I place the pink shoes with the rhinestones inside.

Grandpa, I just have to have these shoes.

She was so happy that day.

I push the dirt over them and pat it down too many times.

I’m stopped by my phone ringing. I straighten slowly, wipe my hands with my handkerchief, and answer it.

“Marshal.” It’s the Old Man’s electronic voice.

“It’s you,” I say. “You pulled the plug on Margaret. Thank you.”

“I can’t have an Ender killing my best donors. Even one of my best renters.”

“She can live out the next hundred years of her life in prison,” I say. “Now you, you’ll always be in business.”

“Everybody wants to be someone else,” he says.

That’s because they don’t know who they are.

My feet hurt, my legs ache. I look out over the city below and see war-scarred pockets blackened by fire or reduced to rubble. But most of it still stands.

The Old Man’s mask crackles. “Do you blame them?” he asks.

I hang up and shut my tired eyes. In the darkness behind my hundred-year-old eyelids, I search for the answer.

About the Author

Lissa Price has studied photography and writing, but the world has turned out to be her greatest teacher.

She has walked with elephants in Botswana, swum with penguins in the Galápagos, and stood in a field at sunset amid a thousand nomads in Gujarat, India. She has been surrounded by hundreds of snorting Cape buffalo in South Africa and held an almost silent chorus with a hundred wild porpoises off the coast of Oahu. She has danced in mud huts at weddings in India and had tea with the most famous living socialite in Kyoto.

When she sat down to write, she found that the most surprising journeys were still inside her mind.

She lives in the foothills of Southern California with her husband and the occasional deer. Visit her at LissaPrice.com.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

First Page

About the Author