Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 110757 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110757 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
“So why decelerate aging?” I look at the children and young adults walking around the track and clustered into groups of friends through fresh eyes, realizing they’re all clones.
Which ones are Ellison? Dr. McClain? Dr. P?
“To create tomorrow’s leaders,” Ingrid says, her tone indicating she thinks she’s superior in thinking to me. “Humans who age seven times slower than us can be invested in with training and resources. They can lead our nation for many generations.”
“Of course.”
I’ve got the full picture now, and it’s a grim one. They plan to use decelerated aging to make military leaders who can live four hundred years, and accelerated aging to make expendable grunts.
I hate it here. Fuck their air-conditioned rooms and fancy food. I want to go back to my island, where there’s only one version of me.
Ingrid looks at the screen of her communication device. “I only have a little more time to spare. Before Tyrone takes you to our tattooist, would you like to meet 6D17? One of your decelerated clones?”
Seventeen. And I can’t punch the shit out of anyone right now.
“I’d love that. I’m curious, though, why seventeen? Are there more decelerated clones?”
She purses her lips. “Slowing aging has proven more challenging to our team.”
What the fuck does that mean? Are the first sixteen dead? I don’t want to ask too many questions, so I just nod.
“We went through a lot of that on my island, too. Keep at it. Persistence pays off.”
“Well said, Commander. Let’s head into the nursery.”
I can’t stop staring at the massive New America flag inked onto my forearm. It’s a reminder of many things, none of which are good.
The flag I knew growing up is no more. It’s been replaced by a flag that represents authoritarianism, patriarchy, and destruction. I did nothing to stop any of it. The regime this flag belongs to forced Briar into a marriage where she was sexually assaulted repeatedly, and then they branded her hands with black X marks to tell the world she defied them.
Her tattoos are nothing to be ashamed of. They show she refused to be used. And even though I had to get the fresh ink on my left forearm, I don’t like what it shows. Even if it is a lie.
“It looks great on you,” Tyrone says for the third time in the past hour.
“Thanks.”
He made small talk with the tattooist, Moses. It saved me from having to do it, but left me with nothing to do but watch in silent horror as Whitman’s flag was permanently drawn on my skin.
That was on the heels of meeting a version of myself who looks like a baby, but is actually much older. 6D17 has dark hair and was just ... off. He was listless and seemed unaware of his surroundings.
At least now I can get the fuck out of here. Tyrone is driving me back to my sub at the dry docks.
“I want to show you our statue of the president,” Tyrone says, turning down a narrow lane.
I’d love to piss all over that statue, but instead I smile and say, “Great.”
The lane turns into a narrow alleyway between two buildings, and Tyrone makes a sudden, sharp turn into an opening in one of the buildings. When I look at him, he has a finger over his lips, telling me to stay quiet.
We’re in an empty room with a concrete floor. There are floor cabinets lining the large space, some with toolboxes on the counters. New tires of all sizes line shelves and there are several vehicle lifts. It must be a vehicle maintenance area.
He puts the vehicle in park and a woman approaches us, passing him something and then leaving quickly. It looks metal and it’s about the size of an ink pen. Tyrone looks at his watch and pushes a button on top of the pen thing.
“This is a jammer,” he says softly. “We have about three minutes. Olin contacted me when you were on the way here. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to break my cover until now. I’m ILF. Olin said I can trust you. Can I?”
I nod, floored. Tyrone played the role of Whitman disciple so convincingly that I never doubted him.
“We have people undercover on all the islands but one,” Tyrone says. “Olin has never contacted any of us, but he asked me to keep you safe. You didn’t really need me, though. What questions can I answer for you?”
It’s already been thirty seconds, and I have dozens of questions. I spit out the first one that comes to mind.
“How many islands are there?”
“There were originally nine. One island was contaminated, so it’s quarantined now.”
“Is the ILF winning the fight?”
He pinches his brows together. “From what I know, it’s more of a draw. We get a win, they get a win. But we deliberately keep intelligence only within certain cells. The fewer of us who know everything, the better.”