Though the Montauk Project emerged from a U.S. government program, it works independently in this time period. Only a very small number in the government know of its existence at all, and an even smaller number know what they do. If something goes wrong, we will be four fugitives with no identities, completely at the mercy of an organization that has proven again and again that its recruits do not matter.
But of course Tierney just smiles, and I let out a slow breath. “You brought a guest.”
Twenty-two steps forward. “Bea Carlisle.” She says her name as though Tierney doesn’t know it yet, and he smiles at her and nods. It is strange how the I-unit has worked itself into social custom, how much you can know about someone you’ve never really met before.
“Bea is staying with us while we visit New Washington,” I say.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Twenty-two cocks her head to the side. “I don’t want to sound forward, but is that really the president?”
The breathy way she says it makes Tierney move toward her. “It is. He’s a close friend of mine.”
“This is all so exciting.” She clasps her hands together, and Tierney’s eyes fall to the bodice of her dress.
“You’ll have to forgive Bea,” Wes cuts in. “She’s not used to events like this.”
The shorter man inches closer to Twenty-two. “We’ll take good care of you, don’t worry.”
“I’m from a small town. Peaksville, New York.” Twenty-two laughs. It is a throaty sound that makes one of the Secret Service agents glance over at her. “I haven’t seen Samantha in years, and now here we are in a ballroom with the president.”
“Did you say Peaksville?”
The four of us turn. President Sardosky is standing now, watching our conversation. “I have family in Peaksville.”
“Really?” Twenty-two’s smile widens. “I didn’t know that.”
“I used to visit my grandparents there every summer.” He pushes away from the china-laden table and moves to join us.
“Don’t you miss it, stuck in this big city?” Twenty-two drops her voice, forcing the president to lean in close to hear her.
“Every day.”
“I’m Bea Carlisle.” She holds out her hand.
President Sardosky takes it in his, though he doesn’t let go right away. “A pleasure. I’m sure you know who I am.” He smiles, and thick creases spread out around his eyes.
She does. We all do. And not just that he’s the president. We know about his childhood on the streets of Brooklyn, about his rise to politics. His daily routine, down to what type of coffee he drinks in the morning—Brazilian, imported, rare in this time period.
We also know that in some ways he is a contradiction: a president who will do anything to create peace across the world, while his own household is in upheaval. He is notorious for his indiscretions; he keeps a mistress, and there have been more than a few rumors of what happens with the young, dark-haired interns at Hill House. The first lady staunchly ignores the rumors in public, but the tabloids are constantly writing about the screaming fights overheard by their staff.
Twenty-two keeps her voice light as she says, “Oh, of course, Mr. President.” She sounds in awe of him, and he stands a bit straighter, expanding his barrel-shaped chest. He is a broad man, just a little shorter than Wes, with thick graying hair and a mustache that hangs down over his top lip.
“This is my cousin and her fiancé.”
The president uses his I-unit to scan us all, but when he gets to me, he blinks several times. I feel Wes’s hand settle on my back again and I automatically move in to his touch.
Twenty-two starts to speak, but Sardosky cuts her off. “I’m sorry. But . . . your hair.”
“Is something wrong?” I touch a strand that has fallen over my shoulder. Sardosky follows the movement with his eyes.
“The color. This might be rude, but do you dye it?”
He is insulting me by asking this, since no one in 2049 dyes their hair. It is considered taboo to try and alter your appearance in such a drastic way, perhaps as a response to the plastic-surgery boom of the early twenty-first century. Even though stem cells make everyone appear more youthful, they’re considered medicinal, not cosmetic.
I remember a passing comment from Lieutenant Andrews, who told me that my red hair might stand out in this era. I was so nervous tonight that I had forgotten all about it, assuming I was making some mistake that was drawing people’s eyes to me. But now when I scan the room, I see that most people have black or brown hair. There are only a few blonds, and no other redheads.
I had asked Andrews if I should dye it or wear a wig, but he’d said it was better to look natural, that if people even suspected I altered it, I’d be ostracized. I hadn’t realized that people would assume mine was fake.
“Of course I don’t.”
Sardosky raises one bushy eyebrow.
“She doesn’t.” Wes’s voice is firm. “It’s natural, I assure you. The color runs in her family.” And it does—Mary and her mother, Harriet Bentley, had red hair too.
Tierney turns to the president. “Michael Gallo is an honest man. If he says so, then it must be true.”
The president is still staring at me. “I haven’t seen red like that in years, and certainly not on such a young woman.”
“I thought it was extinct,” Tierney adds. “You’re a lucky girl.”
Wes raises his arm and drapes it over my shoulder, twisting a section of my hair around his hand. It is a deliberately possessive move, and when Tierney sees it he looks down, fighting a smile. Sardosky is too focused on that spiraling length of hair to react to Wes.
“Thank you,” I say to both men, as though I’m used to hearing comments like this all the time. “People often
