Nexis Page 2

  I feel my jaw drop in shock. I’m not sure if I’m more moved that Zane Boyd actually knows my name or that he’s bringing attention to my Natural features.

  Dad reaches out and grasps Zane’s shoulder. As if sensing my confusion, he says, “Considering the game’s recent coverage on The Broadcast, Zane and I have been seeing a lot of each other lately. You’ve come up in conversation more than once.”

  Why? I don’t factor into Nexis at all.

  Zane narrows furtive eyes. “I’ve been looking forward to finally meeting the daughter of Cleo and Warren Drexel.”

  I hold out my hands. “Well, as you can see there isn’t much to her.”

  He smirks. “I beg to differ.”

  Dad clears his throat. “I think I’m going to leave you two to—” but he is interrupted by a familiar voice. “Well, Warren, aren’t you proud of yourself?”

  I turn to see Uncle Simon, my father’s brother and business partner, standing just behind me, a tall crystalline glass of champagne in one hand and the sleeve of an uncomfortable looking Bastian—his adopted son—in the other. Uncle Simon is dressed in a militaristic navy blue jacket that follows the Justaucorps design. The braided cord around his cuffs and lapels has been woven through with fiber-optic thread so that a constant waterfall of rainbows glistens at the slightest movement.

  “Oh, I’m not sure they needed to make such a grand spectacle as all of this,” Dad says. “They’ve never made such a big deal about the award before.”

  Uncle Simon drops Bastian’s sleeve and claps my father on the shoulder. “Come now, this is no time to be bashful. Nexis is the most revolutionary game to hit Evanescence since the dawn of the Post-American Age. Bask in the glory, my brother.” He tips his head back and downs his champagne.

  “How many of those have you had, Simon?”

  Bastian rolls his eyes and says, “Five since we arrived.”

  “You be quiet, Bastian,” Uncle Simon scolds. “You’re an awful son.”

  Looking like he’s mentally searching for a reserve of patience which, being my Uncle’s son, he does often, Bastian runs both his hands through his hair—onyx black with strands of silver woven throughout. Bastian is a Natural—a Disfavored actually. But Uncle Simon adopted him when he was very young and, unlike me, he’s had the luxury of Altering and Modifying himself ever since. He looks almost Aristocratic. “You did ask me to count for you.”

  Uncle Simon glances down at the glass and, shrugging, grins to himself. “Well, stop counting. Ella, you look like you want to dance.” He grabs my wrist, making me drop my plate, and practically tosses me at Bastian. “Bastian, dance with Ella. Isn’t she lovely tonight?”

  Bastian, despite the annoyance in his angular features, gently sets me back on both my feet and ignores the question. Instead, he says, “Honestly, you’re making a ruckus. Look what you’ve done.” He gestures at the shattered plate and then glances at the Elites close by who turned to stare at the commotion. Unlike most Aristocrats, Bastian is not the sort who likes to draw attention.

  Dad clears his throat, breaking the tension. “Zane, I believe you and Bastian have met before.”

  Bastian bares his teeth in something that looks less like a friendly grin and more like a challenge. “Zane and I go way back.”

  Yes, if I remember correctly, they graduated together.

  Zane leans close to my ear. “He’s supposed to be almost as good at programming as you are, you must be competitive…”

  I resist a shiver, whether it’s Zane’s whisper on the back of my neck or the way Bastian’s fingers curl at my spine, I’m not sure.

  Bastian smirks. “Ella and I have never been competitive. And I wouldn’t say I’m half as good.” His jet black eyes slide over me. “Not nearly. I’ve seen what she can do. She’s her father’s daughter.”

  “See?” Uncle Simon breathes, drawing the word out. “Warren, you should live it up.” He looks at me while pointing at my father. “You agree with me, don’t you, Ella?”

  I nod, hoping that agreeing will save me from getting sucked into another one of Uncle Simon’s lectures on the value of virtual reality on the psyche of the Post-American people. I love my Uncle Simon, he has a quick smile and excellent taste in clothing, but he bores the heck out of me, especially when he’s drunk. “Yeah, Dad, live it up.”

  “Smart girl, our Ella.” Uncle Simon punches Dad’s arm. Another service android walks by and my uncle takes a moment to change out his empty glass for a full one before turning back to me. “You should be very proud of your father, Ellani. He’s done a great thing for humanity.”

  Zane echoes the sentiment.

  “And for our family,” Uncle Simon adds.

  I wince, hating that he brought the sudden skyrocket of our status into the conversation in front of a gorgeous Broadcast Anchor, who I’d rather not remind I’m from a lower-class household, but he seems to be watching me, gauging my reaction with an amused expression, and suddenly I feel a bit lighter.

  “Oh, I know,” I say, trying to sound as reverent as possible while all I want to do is laugh. “Just the fact that I’m here at the biggest social event in Evanescence speaks volumes.”

  Uncle Simon narrows tipsy eyes at me, as if he can hear my underlying sarcasm. “So, why are you standing here, girl? Shouldn’t you be dancing or something?” He shoves Bastian, which makes him step in to me in what feels far too much like an embrace. “Dance with my niece, you oaf.”

  The muscles in Bastian’s jaw clench as he steers me toward the dance floor. “Anything you wish, Father.” Which is a jab because Uncle Simon hates being called that.

  To my surprise Zane turns as well. “I hope you gentlemen don’t mind me stepping away.”

  Confused, I turn to my uncle and my father who both look quite satisfied with themselves. Disgusted, I turn away. As I let Bastian lead me into the crowd, I hear Dad say, “Will you stop with those. You’re making a fool out of yourself.”

  I slump my shoulders. “Is he ever going to learn?”

  “I doubt it,” Bastian reflects. He glances back over his shoulder.

  I smirk at him. “I think it’s safe.”

  Bastian must not believe me, because he doesn’t let go or step away, so I do it for him. We walk side by side for an awkward moment before he glances at Zane. “Is there a reason you’re following us?” Zane grins, making Bastian stop and turn on him. “I know what you’re doing.”

  Zane’s brow raises, he glances at me, then back at Bastian, then back at me before stepping up to me and offering his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

  Stunned, I take his hand and let him lead me onto the dance floor. Zane is a good lead, which makes it easy for my mind to notice the people around us…watching.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks.

  I try not to look at him. “Yes. Now that I’m away from my father and uncle.”

  He scoffs. “They’re both brilliant men.”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

  “You’ll be like them one day. Someone great.”

  I lower my chin, rejecting the notion. Everyone wants to be great. To be great is to be noticed, and to be noticed for greatness is what everyone in Evanescence wants. But I don’t want to be great in that way. “You’re so certain?”

  Zane stops mid-step in the middle of the dance floor and steps away from me. Uncertain what I’ve done to earn his rejection, I lower my head. But the next instant he catches my jaw with his fingers and raises my gaze to meet his. I have trouble meeting that gaze, but when I do, I can’t turn away. He stares at me for a very long time before saying, “I am, actually.” And then he stares some more. I feel my heart hammering and my face heating.

  And then there’s someone beside us, tapping his shoulder, and he looks away.

  “May I cut in?”

  Zane no
ds, melting away to allow Bastian to step in and take my hand. His fingers slide along my waist, and he presses me backward, making me dance although my feet feel heavy. After a few turns, I regain my focus and fall into step with him.

  “What are you doing?” he mutters.

  I frown at him. “What do you mean?”

  He grumbles under his breath. “He’s a playboy, Ella, you know that.”

  I ball my fist at his shoulder and look away. “I didn’t ask him to come.”

  His muscle goes limp under my fingers, defeat. “Yeah, I know. Your father did, which is even worse. What is he thinking?” Before I can voice my suspicion, Bastian keeps talking. “I mean, that guy? As a suitor for you?” His body goes stiff. “Over my dead body.”

  I blink up at him, stunned by his sudden streak of protectiveness and by the news that Zane is apparently a suitor.

  After a moment, he realizes I’m staring at him and looks back down at me. “What?”

  I smirk at him, trying not to laugh. “I didn’t know you cared.”

  He frowns at me. “I’ve known you since we were kids. I wouldn’t let some scoundrel like that besmirch your reputation.”

  I want to laugh at him. “What reputation? Seriously, Bastian, you’re overreacting. If Zane Boyd wanted to pursue anything with me, it would be a blessing. He’s a good match.”

  Bastian clenches his jaw and looks away, fighting for patience again. “Just shut up and dance.”

  Chapter Two

  Post-American Date: 6/14/231

  Longitudinal Timestamp: 8:38 p.m.

  Location: Dome 5: Evanescence

  Delia Haverfeld is not a difficult person to find. She, like me, was born a Natural—a child who wasn’t genetically Customized to fit the golden ratio. Together, Delia and I are two of only a few teens in Evanescence who do not fit da Vinci’s Canon of Bodily Proportions. But, unlike me, even though her parents chose to have a Natural child, they allow her to Alter and Modify herself; anything Delia doesn’t like about her Natural body is easily changed. Since she was legally able, she has gone through various surgeries to make herself both blend in and stand out among the other Aristocrats.

  She’s had the base Modifications: she’s been nipped and tucked to remove fatty tissue, she’s had Rhinoplasty to make her nose more unique, and she’s had a breast augmentation. She also has some Alterations: ocular inserts that change the holographic projection of makeup around her eyes, and she’s had an epidermal injection of Argence to make her skin lighter and brighter. Her latest and most successful Alteration turned her once midnight black hair to an odd striped combination of red, yellow, green, and blue.

  She claims she got the inspiration from seeing an old holograph of an extinct tropical bird called a macaw. While I find the color combination unseemly, it does make her easy to spot in a crowd—and that’s all that matters among the Aristocrats.

  While Bastian—who has designated himself my chaperone for the evening—is off finding me a glass of champagne, I slip away. I find Delia in a small group of fellow students and head toward her. When she sees me, her surgically perfected face lights up.

  “NiNi,” she yelps and comes skimming toward me.

  Delia has a natural grace that no amount of Altering or Modifying could bestow upon an Aristocrat. Above all else, I think that’s why the other girls pay her any mind.

  I reach out and accept her outstretched hands. She pulls me close, and we exchange distant kisses to each other’s cheeks. Then she steps away with a grin.

  “You look ravishing, darling.”

  I fall easily into the over-affectionate, seemingly self-deprecating Neo-Aristocratic dialect that we’ve all spoken since first-year in school. “Not at all, love. What a splendid hairstyle you’re wearing tonight. Have you a new Primper?”

  She giggles, her laugh a Modified tinkling of bells that reminds me of something fizzy on the base of my tongue. Pretenses forgotten, I lift a brow. “That’s new.”

  She bites her bottom lip and casts a sidelong glance toward the three other girls she’s been standing with. I only recognize one of them. Carsai Sheldon. She’s the most popular girl in school. Her father is President Cyr’s oldest and most personal friend; she always has the latest Mods and Alts.

  I like her about as much as I like lab-grown caviar: not at all. From the moment I began attending Paramount Preparatory High School for the Gifted, she has made it a point to give me grief. Delia claims it’s because Carsai is jealous. It wasn’t my family’s wealth and social standing that got me into the prestigious school, it was my sheer academic aptitude.

  But it’s beauty, not brains, that make you stand out among the younger set of Aristocrats, so my proficiency as a Programmer means little to Carsai. Since Delia is also a scholarship case like me, she treats Delia just as horribly. So I’m a little confused as to why my best friend is socializing with her.

  As if sensing my “she’s gone traitor” thoughts, Delia tugs on my arm. “Uh, we’ll be right back.”

  Carsai nods and turns back toward the other two girls who, I’ve decided, must attend a different Aristocratic preparatory school.

  Once we’re out of eye and earshot of Carsai and her Altered cronies, Delia spins me around and presses me into a little nook. I have trouble keeping my face from showing how hurt I feel. “What are you doing with Carsai?”

  Delia’s eyes dart out toward the people standing nearby, but no one seems to have heard. “Keep your voice down,” she whispers.

  I clamp my teeth together and glare at her until my face hurts.

  “Okay,” she says, throwing up her hands. “She likes my new Mod.”

  I scrunch my nose, unconvinced. Delia’s new laugh is a pretty Modification but unlikely to draw Carsai’s attention—especially since she just got a similar one.

  Delia’s shoulders drop, her face losing all pretense. “Okay, fine. She was asking about you.”

  I blink. “Me? What for?” That can’t be good.

  She shrugs. “She wanted to know about your dad’s game. She was wondering if you had access to a cheat code to infiltrate another person’s game.”

  I frown, confused. “She doesn’t strike me as a gamer.”

  Delia shakes her head. “No. But…” Her eyes wander back out toward the crowd and land on a particular group that I, despite having two entertaining gentlemen in tow for the evening, have also been keeping a partial eye on since arriving. “He’s been playing it.”

  I nod, suddenly understanding where Carsai is coming from. She’s not interested in me. She’s interested in Quentin Cyr, the son of the President. She wants me to get a cheat code so she can access his game. “Little sneak…”

  “I wish I had thought of it,” Delia says with a sigh. “Imagine how romantic playing a game with Quentin would be.”

  “Yeah. It would be pretty cracked.” Why didn’t I think of that? I glance around for Bastian, wondering if he could be convinced to reveal one, but I get distracted by Quentin.

  Delia, fussing with the sleeve of my dress, draws my attention back to her soft brown gaze and away from the boy I’ve been in love with since the moment I set eyes on him. She wants to Modify her eyes, genetically splice them so that they look reptilian or get them injected with nanites so that they change color with her mood. But I think she’d lose something if she changed them. Eye Mods have always set me on edge. They seem to take the last vestiges of humanity away from a person.

  “This is a beautiful dress, Ni.”

  I sigh and stare down at what was, up until an hour ago, my pride and joy. A lovely black satin and silk gown with a low square neckline; full, laced and ribboned sleeves; and a long stomacher that hides my Natural flaws. All of my dark brown, Natural curls have been piled on top of my head and held in place with a fantastic comb with synthetic feathers, glass beads, and sequins. My shoes are three-inc
h heels made of a smoky plastic that looks like black glass decorated with delicate lace and ribbons, made to match my sleeves. In all, the outfit makes me feel like a mysterious, towering obelisk.

  “I don’t feel so beautiful wearing it.”

  “Is your reception off?” Delia’s voice is shrill. “It’s the most beautiful dress here. You always have the most beautiful dresses. And considering who I’ve seen you walking around with this evening, it’s obviously doing what it’s supposed to.”

  I blush. Since I can’t use my allowance to buy Alterations and Modifications, I pour my heart and soul into the only option I have left—fashion. I have made it my life’s mission to design the loveliest, most unique wardrobe in the entirety of Paramount Prep. I’ve had momentous failures as well as successes, but at least I manage to turn heads. It has become more than a life mission or a hobby. It’s something that I truly love and I wish, almost as much as I wish I could kiss Quentin, that I had been born a Designer instead of a Programmer. I smile. “Thanks Dee.”

  She looks up and grins. “I like your mask, too. The simplicity of the demi-mask really emphasizes your dress.”

  My mask is the same type of generic holo-mask that everyone is wearing. The mask headpieces allow us to choose from a large variety of pre-programmed holographic projections; each is then tailored by our G-Chips to fit perfectly over our unique features, moving and adjusting as we speak and make expressions, but still meant to look like a true physical mask. However, being Ellani Drexel and having been born with a remarkable talent for programming, I’ve made a few adjustments to mine. “It gets better,” I whisper.

  Delia watches with wide, fascinated eyes as I reach up and press a button on the side of the headband-like headpiece, calling up the mask my father told me to turn off not so long ago. Nothing in front of me changes, but I can tell the projection has by the astounded gasp she emits. “Oh my sparks,” she breathes.

  I stand still, proud of myself as she steps from side to side examining my face. What she’s seeing is no longer a demi-mask over Natural features, but a perfect Aristocratic face—a face that I wish I had. “It’s perfect. I can’t tell the difference. Those look just like real Mods.”