She was having a hard time, but Justin stood by his decision to bring Tessa here. She was capable, and she deserved this. Sergio had taken Justin in without question when he’d shown up penniless in Panama. Marta Cruz had always believed Justin was a freeloader, but he had strong convictions about paying his debts. Choosing where to go in exile had been the biggest gamble Justin had ever made, with his life as the wager. Gemman authorities had escorted him from his office straight to the nearest airport, telling him he could go “anywhere but here.” He’d had only minutes to make a decision. Central and South America were the obvious options. Their populations had been diverse enough to help them weather the Decline better than other places, and they were more stable than most provinces.

And you see yourself in her, Horatio said.

Justin didn’t deny it because it was true. For a moment, Tessa’s face dissolved, and he saw another one in his mind, an older face that had seemed beautiful to his ten-year-old self. The noise and smells of the Anchorage market had surrounded them, and his boss had been yelling for him to return. How did you do that? the beautiful woman had asked. It’s easy, Justin had replied. You just have to look at their faces. And with those words, his life had changed.

Studying Tessa now, he was struck by how painfully out of place she looked. With her ankle-length skirt and thick hair, she could’ve been a time traveler from another century. She attracted a lot of stares, so it was probably just as well that her eyes were kind of glazed over. Walking next to Mae, so perfect and polished in her tailored outfit, didn’t help Tessa’s appearance, though it occasionally allowed Justin to see flashes of compassion on Mae’s face when she didn’t think anyone was looking. Killer soldier, haughty castal, bitter one-night stand…whatever she was, Mae had a soft spot for frightened provincial girls.

“Can’t we take a car?” he asked her when he realized they were headed toward the airport’s entrance to the subway.

Mae shook her head. “We need her chipped, and this way’s faster to the Citizens’ Ministry.”

“I don’t want a chip,” Tessa repeated, abandoning one fear for another.

“It’s easy,” he said. “And it’ll make your life a lot easier.”

She looked skeptical, probably because her crackpot mother had filled her with all sorts of idiocy about chips sealing Gemmans to the devil.

Proving his point, Tessa triggered an alarm when she passed through the transit entrance. The guard waved them on once Mae stopped to show him Tessa’s documentation and card, though Justin was pretty sure Mae could’ve achieved the same effect by flashing a gun, that ridiculous knife, or the look she’d given Justin last night upon learning he wasn’t Huan Korokov.

“That’ll happen every time you go through a checkpoint if you don’t have a chip,” Justin told Tessa. “Sensors like this are scattered around the city.”

“Tracking us,” she said darkly.

“It’s not recorded. Most are just scanning to make sure everyone’s got an authentic chip—or the paperwork to explain why they don’t. The chip will send its person’s name to the scanner, but that’s only to match it against outstanding warrants. Most of the time, the names are dumped after that.”

“Most?” Tessa asked. Smart girl, picking up on the one-word nuances he loved.

“Most,” he affirmed. They came to a halt near the yellow-line train’s platform. “High-security spots—like this airport—will have scanners synched to the National Registry. All the people going through are checked against that to make sure they have a matching official record.”

“Still sounds like tracking to me. No one can go anywhere unnoticed.” At least ruminating over conspiracy theories distracted Tessa from the tightly packed subway tunnel. “And doesn’t the registry control names?”

He thought about it. “‘Control’ isn’t the right word. It’s just a way to strengthen national unity.” Per RUNA policy, all citizens had to have a name of Greek or Latin origin to be in the National Registry database. Castals could call each other whatever ethnic names they wanted on their grants, but in the eyes of their country, their names had to meet the same criteria as those of plebeians. “Besides, there are thousands of choices.”

“It’s still a limitation.”

“Whatever you say, Teresa. Your dad isn’t stupid. He gave all of you RUNA-friendly names in a continuing insurance plan in case you ended up back here.”

Tessa looked dumbstruck at this revelation, then almost appeared offended that she’d been put into a preexisting system without her consent or knowledge. It kept her quiet as they rode the train through the city, and although she caught her breath when they emerged out onto the high light-rail platform, she didn’t have a meltdown, which Justin took as a promising sign of her ability to adapt. She’d be part of this world in no time.

Once they were off the train and walking outside at ground level, Justin found he was the one dazzled and overwhelmed. The soaring buildings glittered in the setting sun, casting shadows on the earthbound pedestrians moving below. The light-rail track curved between buildings, while below it, automated traffic flowed smoothly and efficiently. Screens with ever-changing images filled shop and restaurant windows. Other, larger screens were mounted on buildings, running the latest headlines, political profiles, and ads for every good and service imaginable. It was a far cry from the dirty streets of Panama City, with its hodgepodge of shady pedestrians, gas-powered cars, cart vendors, and, at times, horses.

Their subway stop was two blocks from Hale Square. The square was a wide, grassy park flanked by three federal buildings, resplendent in marble and pillars: the Citizens’ Ministry, the Ministry of Internal Security, and the Ministry of Diplomacy. A Gemman flag hung on each building, and there were no advertisements or screens of any kind. The Citizens’ Ministry was the department that oversaw chips and the National Registry, and as they approached it, Justin paused to glance over at Internal Security. That was the building the servitors worked out of, where his old office had been. It seemed a lifetime ago since he’d strode into work each morning, confident in being at the top of his career. He’d had the world in his hands, never once dreaming it’d be ripped out from under him.

A few people were walking away from Internal Security, carrying signs he couldn’t read. “What’s going on?” he asked Mae.

“There’s a lot of buzz about religious freedom lately,” she explained. “Protesters hang out here every day.”

“You can’t be serious.” There were a few core principles that had never changed since the RUNA’s inception. The danger of religion and belief in the supernatural was one of them.

“Nothing’s going to come of it. They’re just making a lot of noise.”

It was after hours, and the foyer of the Citizens’ Ministry was empty, save for two regular military guards standing watch. They saluted Mae when she identified herself, but she barely spared them a glance as she strode off toward the elevator bank.

Aside from one technician who cringed around Mae, the chipping office was empty. Tessa seemed calmed by the quiet setting and made no more protests about chips. The technician led her to a chair beside a monitor and stainless steel table, and she gave Justin a brave smile as she sat down.

He sat nearby, close enough to reassure Tessa but far enough to let the technician work. Mae took a seat beside him and immediately began jotting out messages on her ego, probably requisitioning more guns and knives or whatever it was prætorians did in their free time to defend the country. Justin kept an eye on Tessa, watching as her profile slowly assembled on the screen.

“Six,” he said in approval once her genetic score appeared. “Good for a provincial.” Mae’s attention was still on the ego, and he added, “Not as good as a nine, like some people have.” He’d memorized every single detail on her screen, back in customs.

This made her look up. “So?”

He nodded toward Tessa. “So, a five or six is exactly what you’d expect from her. But from a cas—patrician? I’d say anywhere from two to four. Maybe, maybe a five in a rare case.” He paused for effect. “Not a nine. That’s a plebeian rating.”

“Apparently not,” Mae said.

“It’s too high. I have a nine.”

“Do you feel threatened by that?”

“Of course not. It’s just weird, that’s all. Doesn’t it seem weird to you?”

“Not really,” she said. “I’ve had it my whole life.”

He tilted his head, studying the flawless skin and hair with new appreciation. “You haven’t had any work done, have you? Not a trace of Cain.”

“Nope.” She looked back down at the ego.

When the Mephistopheles virus had swept the world and taken out half its population during the Decline, it had caused reproductive damage to many of its survivors, passing along a mutation that resulted in poor fertility, asthma, and damaged skin and hair. The mutation had a long, complex scientific name, but zealots who already believed Mephistopheles was some divine punishment called its mutation the Mark of Cain. The name had stuck. Until a vaccine for Mephistopheles had been created, the RUNA and EA’s diverse genetic breeding program had offered resistance to the virus, which tended to attack those of homogeneous backgrounds. Heterogeneous genes had also helped weed out Cain, and it almost never appeared in plebeians anymore. Castals, with their narrower breeding pool, still suffered from it, though there were plenty of cosmetic procedures to cover up the external signs. There wasn’t much to be done for the asthma or infertility. Judging from the way she’d behaved in bed, Mae didn’t seem to have any breathing or stamina issues.

No fertility issues either, said Horatio helpfully. Worried? You didn’t really take any precautions.

No. Civilized women in the military get vaccines and contraceptive implants.