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“It is a perfect copy of
you
,” he said. His arm stretched towards me, a casual gesture.

I recoiled.

“Oh, come now, my dear,” said Hans, “Have I not already obtained all I desired from you?” He turned back to the device. “Herein lies your double. Will you not have a look?”

In that instant, he reached for my arm and his grip was like iron. Immediately, I rippled away.

Radio Hans
got louder now that I was invisible. And none of it was pretty.
Filthy half–breed … Spaniard–tainted … Blood of Moors and Mayans …

He despised me.

His voice, however, spoke in tones of infinite calm. “Do you still fear me?” He shook his head sadly, as if in regret. “You have just proven how safe you are, even when within my reach. Do you see in my hands anything with which I could harm you?” He held his hands wide for my viewing. As he did so, I saw a flash of an image, courtesy of
Hans–vision
: his jacket pocket was
stuffed
with needles, weapon of choice for Geneses employees, apparently. I thought I’d seen a revolver and a knife as well.

I couldn’t let myself get near him.

“She will be raised as a queen, you know,” said Hans, “This tiny replica of yourself. She will never know loss, or grief, or lack. Imagine that, Samantha. A version of yourself who never suffers the ache of her mother’s death.” He lowered his voice. “Yes, my dear, I know of that tragedy.”

Because you caused it!
I thought.

Suddenly it occurred to me to wonder whether the “radio” worked both ways.

I know what you did, you bastard!
I sent the thought as clearly as I could towards Hans.

“I confess, I have considered creating a second–self of my own,” said Hans.

He didn’t seem to notice my silent messages; I tried one last time:
You’re evil! I hate you! Do you hear that?

He couldn’t—I would have caught some flare of emotion if he’d heard me insulting him like that.

He spoke again. “They say that twins have no need for anyone else—that they inhabit together a private and complete world. Would not that level of companionship be marvelous?”

Two of Hans was
not
something the world needed.

He gazed again into the microscope, ignoring me for the moment.

And then, seeping slowly inside me, I felt the mystery and wonder of being in the presence of my own
self
, in a Petri dish. All that I was. All that I could be. It was terrifying and tantalizing: who would I have been without seeing my mother killed before my eyes? Without believing, as I had for years, that it was my fault? I saw myself with Gwyn’s easy laughter, Sylvia’s confidence. I could have been so different.

My heart went out to this tiny duplicate Sam. And the thought of what I’d come here to do filled me with dread. But
that
Sam, the one in the thermos, would be brought up by Helmann, author of the dark experiments in the black book. I could not allow that. Not in a million years. Not for anything.

“All of your cells, busily replicating themselves,” said Hans. “While you yourself stand invisibly here. You feel the immensity of what we carry out, do you not? Perhaps there might be a place for you in the future I imagine.” He sighed. “But we will never know if you refuse to come solid and converse
like an adult
.”

His anger pushed through with that last barb, but I felt his yearning as well: he really wanted me back.

And now I wanted the same thing. I realized that I could get him to
think
the truth even if he spoke nothing but lies aloud. I came solid.

“Here I am,” I said. “Tell me, Hans, one more time: what is your dream for the future?”

I stood well back from him as he began repeating what he’d told me the day he’d kidnapped me. But this time I didn’t pay attention to his words. I focused on what was playing on
Hans–vision
instead.

Destruction. Deaths of millions. Of billions.

His true feelings didn’t “play” for long; they came as flashes of emotion—brief, intense, and then gone, like sparks quickly stamped out.

I interrupted him, trying to coax forth another burst of truth. “What do you want most in all this?”

He paused, clearly irritated by the interruption. But I got what I wanted. I saw images from his mind, sharp and clear: Hans, standing over his father’s grave; Hans, behind a podium as head of Geneses. And one more image.

My clone, dead at his feet.

I caught it all in that instant. He feared his father meant to supplant him by creating a child with Elisabeth’s blood who would rule at his side. Hans was jealous of me.

My mind was spinning. He’d seemed so eager to protect me last fall, telling his sister to stay away from me. But that was the thing—he’d
only just
realized why his dad wanted me. He’d only just realized that a Sam–clone spelled the end of all
his
dreams.

While I was working through these thoughts, Hans had crept up on me. He’d reached inside his coat. Lightning–fast, he sprang at me, a knife glittering in his outstretched hand.

Chapter Twenty–Two

MESMERIZED

·
WILL
·

I jolted awake early the next morning, just as the stars began to wink out before dawn. I’d realized something important. Throwing off my covers, I ran down the hall to get Sir Walter up. His room lay empty. I ran to Mick’s room, about to pound the door. But then I realized there was a fire blazing in the living room. I wasn’t the only one up early. I flew into the living room where Mickie and Sir Walter sat talking.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” asked my sister.

“The pass–phrase is for
them
!” I said. “The dudes who were hypnotized!”

Mick looked at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for more.

“Yes,” murmured Sir Walter. “But, of course.”

I explained to Mick that Pfeffer and Franz wanted to get a
pass–phrase
from Helmann so they could start “releasing angels,” whatever that meant.

“Did the sleeping guys
look
like angels?” asked my sister.

“They look like
Helga
,” I said. “I mean, like boy versions.”

“Like members of the so–called Aryan race?” said my sister.

Sir Walter nodded.

“Maybe it’s a good thing you couldn’t wake any of them,” said Mick, looking worried.

“Our next step must be to discover the pass–phrase,” said Sir Walter. “This is indeed a matter of grave urgency.”

“Yeah, that’ll be easy enough,” I said, shaking my head. “What was that you were saying about Helmann keeping important info to himself?”

Sir Walter ignored my comment. “Pfeffer seemed to think he might know the pass–phrase, or a hint as to its nature.”

Mick turned pale. “If you feel you need to go back to Rome …”

I shook my head. “It’s crazy thinking we can guess it. Franz wasn’t exactly encouraging to Pfeffer that either of
them
could guess it.”

“His hesitation was not as to the
ease
with which the phrase might be found,” said Sir Walter. “Franz warned against trying to use it without their father’s permission. I think Pfeffer had a pretty shrewd guess what the pass–phrase might be.”

“That ‘three little words’ thing?” I asked.

Sir Walter quoted Pfeffer. “‘
Three little words that changed my life will soon change the world.
’”

“Oh, no,” murmured Mick, looking like she was going to be sick. “Oh, man …”

“
Mademoiselle
, are you ill?”

“Mick?” I crossed to my sister and knelt before her.

She sat still, staring into the blazing fire.

“You figured it out, didn’t you?” I asked quietly. Then I turned to Sir Walter. “She knows the password, but she’s afraid we’ll use it if she tells us.”

“Of course I’m afraid,” she snapped. “But I’m not going to let my fear stand in the way.” She deflated, sagging into the couch. “I know what’s at stake here, Will. Give me a little credit.”

Sir Walter looked expectantly, giving my sister a minute to pull it together.

“Get the black book Pfeffer stole,” she said.

Chapter Twenty–Three

SHE HAD SPIRIT

·
Sam
·

A month ago, I wouldn’t have escaped. Heck, this
morning
, I wouldn’t have made it. But all my practice at evading a sharp jab with a needle paid off. I rippled away before Hans reached me. The lights dimmed instantly.

He stumbled through the air that had been me. I slipped back inside the wall, instinctively seeking cover even though I was invisible.

He looked up as the lights came back full power. And then, finally, he allowed his inside feelings and the outside expression of them to exist in harmony.

It was not pretty.

He grabbed a chair and hurled it across the room. The computer suffered the same fate. He cleared a long counter, smashing each item against an opposite wall. Finally, after shoving everything off his desk in one large swipe, he paused. Hands on hips, he gazed about the room.

The only thing remaining upright in the room was the large thermos–like object holding a developing copy of me. After grabbing a pair of gloves from a drawer, Hans approached the clone–container. I found myself drifting along the wall to watch. With practiced and precise motions completely unlike what he’d used to trash the office, Hans disassembled the container. He removed a tiny disk—an actual Petri–dish—and set it carefully on the desk. Then, fumbling for a moment within his inner jacket pocket, he brought forth a syringe holding a clear liquid.

I knew what he meant to do. Hans would accomplish the task I’d come here to perform. But the task felt completely different now that I’d seen that possible–Sam: the one who could grow to maturity free from my pain. I’d seen her, and there was no way to pretend I hadn’t.

As I watched him destroy the tiny organism, felt his horrible delight, I was glad I hadn’t had to do it myself. It was the difference between observing a kill and pulling the trigger. I didn’t know what the law said about week old blastocysts, but I knew Hans’ intent was murderous.

It put my step–mother’s annual heartache about a miscarriage in a completely different light. I hadn’t understood why she felt sad about someone she’d never met. But I got it now. She grieved for someone she
had
seen, if only in her imagination.

At that moment,
Radio Hans
settled into a round of self–congratulatory cheer.

I left the building.

Quickly, I made my way out of San Francisco. I drifted across the San Joaquin Valley, eerily still in its blanket of winter fog. Up into the foothills I ghosted, silent and swift, until I neared Las Abuelitas.

The highway before me curved sharply: Deadman’s Curve. Home lay just ahead. I rippled solid a few miles short of my house, craving a good run. The air felt icy after my hours of insubstantiality, but the ground beneath my feet comforted me. I focused on the sound of my shoes slamming down upon bits of gravel. The air passing through my lungs burned, a fierce and fiery cold.

As dawn drew near, a lone bird called, and the sky passed from sterling to pale gray in the east. The back of our house, facing west, lay in darkness. As I drew nearer, I rippled invisible again so no one would notice me returning. I passed our pool, flat and still in the breezeless dawn, a heavy mist rising because Syl kept the pool heated through winter. Dad had forgotten to cover it last night, which would make my step–mom crazy when she noticed. A warm swim sounded wonderful after my shaky run. But my parents would rush me to the doctor to check for signs of insanity, swimming before sunrise on a winter’s morning.

Then I smiled. I could swim. I just couldn’t come solid. I glided towards the water, curious what I’d feel. Crossing to the deep end, I crouched and dove head first. I could sense the instant that every part of my invisible body crossed from air into water. A thousand tiny fingers whispered past me as I shot through. Passing through air never really felt like anything, but water? It made me think of slithering my fingers back and forth through a bowl of seed–beads Sylvia kept upstairs.

“They’re therapeutic,” Sylvia had said, shrugging, when I asked her what the seed–beads were for.

It was a great comparison. Seed beads had smoother, slipperier edges than grains of sand. Pushing around through my swimming pool felt slithery as well. I’d expected the water might feel thick and stretchy like glass. Water seemed more … tickle–y. A thousand times more playful. I kicked off the sides, back and forth. Pushing through my pool required less effort than “swimming” upwards through air. No, that wasn’t exactly right, I decided. It came back to something Sir Walter had said about
expectations
. I expected water to require effort, and I adjusted my motion accordingly. When I’d “jumped” down from Sir Walter’s castle tower in France, I’d expected to “fall” and had been surprised when I found it took effort to make my way to the ground.
Expectations
: they all fell apart when I lacked substance.

The kitchen lights flicked on and I heard Dad’s truck revving up as he backed out our long driveway. I felt reluctant to leave the pool, just like a little kid when the lifeguard says it’s time. But Syl would come knocking on my door if I didn’t start making noise in my room.

I took one final glide through the pool, from end to end, and stepped back into air. I didn’t have to dry off. Cool! When I slipped through the sliding glass door, a delicious hug, I heard Sylvia humming. She was making French Toast, and her version was definitely worth getting back inside my skin for. I ghosted upstairs and lay on my bed, waiting for Christian to come “wake” me.

Several minutes ticked past on my clock. I’d cut it pretty close if I wanted to hide what I’d done last night from Christian. As I thought this, something inside me twitched in annoyance. Because, no, I
didn’t
want to hide this. Hiding things always backfired. So I was telling Christian everything, and he could just
deal
with it.