“Are you ready?” Wes asks me softly.
My body is stiff next to his and I force myself to relax. “Of course, darling.”
He smiles at me, though it never reaches his eyes, and we start to descend the stairs. The guests are a collage of tuxedos and gowns, broken up only by the waiters who dart in and out, carrying silver trays heavy with champagne. The band ends one song, but it blends into the next, the classical notes rising and falling over the buzzing noise of hundreds of murmuring voices.
There’s a rustling among the guests closest to the staircase, and a few people turn to watch us. A woman points at me, then whispers something to the man next to her.
I glance up at the sharp line of Wes’s jaw. His expression is neutral, though his eyes are warm. It’s an act, I can’t forget that. Right now he is not Wes, he’s Michael. I try to put the same level of warmth into my own eyes. I am not a natural actor, not like Wes has proven himself to be, but I have no choice but to become Samantha Greenwood tonight. A bored socialite, perhaps tired of following her fiancé from country to country, with no real friends left in the United States.
“Why are people staring?” I ask him quietly. “Do I have something on my dress?”
“They’re staring because you’re beautiful,” he answers. “Don’t be nervous, Love.”
Love. Wes has never called me that before. I dig my fingernails into the silk of the clutch I’m carrying in my opposite hand. I know he is being Michael right now, but it is his voice, his lips saying the words. I look away before the confusion can show on my face, before I fall into his arms because I know, at least as Samantha, that he’ll catch me.
I hear the tap of another pair of heels on marble and turn to see Twenty-two coming down the stairs behind us. She is transformed, flashing white teeth as she smiles, her eyes wide and bright. “Bea seems like she’s having fun.”
“Your cousin is a lovely girl.” Wes sounds as though he is holding in laughter, delighted by her every move. This time Twenty-two’s smile is for him, even though he has his back to her, and I wonder where the act stops and the real person starts.
We finally reach the bottom of the stairs. Wes lets go of my arm and puts his hand on my exposed back, moving me into the heart of the crowd. There are people on all sides, and I am jostled closer to him. He puts one arm out in front of us, angling our bodies in to each other so that we are like a tiny ship moving through rough waves. I brush against men in black suits, women in simple silk gowns like mine, but all I feel is the pressure of Wes’s fingers on my skin.
“Do you want champagne?”
He has to lean down to whisper the words, and his breath stirs the hair near my neck. I nod. He stops a passing waiter and picks up a flute, the carved crystal catching the light that spills from the chandeliers overhead.
“Mr. Gallo!”
A short, dark-haired man pushes through the crowd to stand in front of us. Who, I think, and my I-unit flickers in front of my eyes, scanning the man’s face and pulling up his profile. Lee Mal-Chin, it reads at the top. It is a limited profile, as we are not friends on any social media sites, but I see a link to a site describing his job and his business associates, and a public folder of pictures from events he has attended.
I do not bother following the link to his job; I have already studied this man’s face in my pre-mission training. He’s a business associate of Michael’s from South Korea, though they’ve never met before tonight. I turn and see hundreds of familiar faces in the crowd—senators and socialites, businessmen and -women who make up New Washington’s elite. I have seen file after file on them, not needing to rely on my I-unit the way most people do in this time period.
I-units are issued by the government in 2049, available for all citizens and not monopolized by one company. They’re encouraged and free, but as a result, the government has access to almost all your personal information—where you go, who you see. Some groups complain about the lack of privacy, but no one can deny that with the countless witnesses and eyes on the streets it has cut down on a large amount of crime. Even if you choose not to use an I-unit, other wearers can still scan your movements. Unless you have resources like the Project does, it makes hiding your identity almost impossible—especially at an event like tonight’s, where they won’t let you in without an I-unit so that security can monitor every movement and every conversation in order to keep the president safe.
Luckily, Michael Gallo is as real as anyone in this room, representing a France-based international shipping company where he’s “worked” for almost a year. The company is fake, but the Project has spent months establishing its identity overseas, setting up business accounts, and using simulation technology to mimic Wes’s voice on conference calls. In order to create our I-units, the Project hacked into the American I-unit database and planted our fake identities, including birth certificates, an internet presence, and forged family connections. Only Tim’s alias, Paul Sherman, was a real person who the Project disposed of, and changed his photos to match Tim. Another casualty for the greater good.
“I heard a rumor you would be here tonight. My wife and I flew all the way from Seoul just to see if it was true.” Mr. Lee’s voice is heavily accented, but his English is flawless. He holds out his arm to a brunette woman who appears to be
