WHAT’S THE USE of being out here, I berate myself, if you’re hiding in an alley the whole time? Go out into the light and color. Are you really risking your security, maybe your very life, on this adventure, only to spend it skulking in the shadows?

Maybe, I answer myself. I feel pulled in two directions, timid and bold at the same time. I want, desperately, to interact with people. At the same time, I’m nervous and tongue-tied and certain that I’ll make a fool of myself.

What’s wrong with me that I worry marginally more about social humiliation than about being caught by the authorities?

But anger trumps fear—always. I’m still fuming with the injustice of actually being a first child and still being condemned. Just go out there, I order myself. Take what is yours.

I step around the corner . . . and bump hard into the broad chest of a Greenshirt.

I know, even as I react, that I’m doing the wrong thing. Act normal. But I don’t know what normal is. I look up at him, gasping, terrified, my wide eyes staring directly into his, giving me away at a glance.

He’s a new recruit, I think, because for a long moment he just stares back. He’s a lot bigger and wider than me, but he looks awfully young, not much past twenty, with fair, fine hair in a short fringe on his forehead peeking out beneath his helmet. His name is embroidered on his chest: Rook. He takes a deep breath, and his mouth works as if he’s about to speak. I can tell he doesn’t believe his own eyes as they look into mine. He has trained for this, I can practically hear him thinking. But he never thought he’d actually come across a second child.

His hand twitches toward the radio mic clipped to his shoulder, but he doesn’t press the button to call his backup. Instead he says to me, “Don’t move.” His voice is very low.

Like hell I won’t move! Anger is still foremost in the confusing mix of emotions, and I look at him in disbelief. “Really?” I ask. “Is that what I should do?”

Then—I can’t believe myself—I shove him as hard as I can with both of my hands, sending him staggering backward. I whirl to run . . . and find myself face-to-face with a securitybot.

Unlike the small, innocuous helper robots like cleanbots and ferrybots, the securitybots are tall, jointed, angular, slightly primate in their movements and stance. They don’t look like humans—they’re metal and circuits, without skin or expression. But still, there’s a sinister humanity to them. As if a machine tried to make a human and it all went horribly wrong.

These are the bots that cruise Eden diligently, searching out any kind of violation of the EcoPan directives. Most of the time they police things like waste, or vices that might corrupt the gene pool, or destruction of public property. But they’re also on the lookout for more serious threats, such as members of criminal gangs, or the rumored heretical sects that believe an ancient folklore stating that humans should have dominion over the creatures of the Earth.

And, I’m sure, for second children.

This time I act more sensibly. I duck sharply to the side as the securitybot begins its scan of me. Maybe I was fast enough that it didn’t get a thorough scan. It might not have seen my face. But the young Greenshirt certainly did.

“Stop!” he shouts, and launches into a tackle that misses as I twist away. He catches the securitybot instead and they go down in a tangle of metal and flesh. I don’t pause to thank my lucky stars, but dash off into the crowd. A nearby concert has just ended, and I quickly lose myself in the masses spilling out of the theater.

I’ve been prey all my life, but I’ve never been hunted. Without the practice or natural instinct, I have to think through my evasion. At first it’s easy, and I slip through the crowds that part indulgently before me. Everyone is yielding and polite, because so far they think I’m one of them. I see smiles, and one older woman calls out after me, “Take it easy, kiddo—the party will wait for you!”

But any moment the Greenshirt will have scrambled to his feet to pursue me, and the securitybot will have flashed whatever data he grabbed from me and sent it throughout all Eden. The hunt will be on. And then, every resident will be my enemy.

I think I’ve gotten far enough away that I can slow a little bit. Running is attracting too much attention. My best bet is probably to just blend in with the crowd. Half of the people are about my age, teens or in their early twenties, and a lot of them are dressed more or less like me, in the student uniforms that are the hallmark of every young person whether they’re in or out of class. Each school has its own color, and the outfits—baggy pants, a sleek, tight, stretchy shirt, and in tonight’s chilly weather, a wide-shouldered jacket—mark a young person’s neighborhood and friends instantly. Now they school like garishly colored fish. Ash’s uniform (which I’m wearing now) is subtle and beautiful, the shimmering gold of desert sand to match his school’s name: Kalahari. But the Macaws are scarlet, the students at Iris wear a vibrant blue-purple, and the Cherry Blossoms are a strong, sweet pink. I’m glad Ash’s uniform is among the more quiet . . . but I’m glad I’m dressed to fit in.

Cautiously, I sneak a backward glance. To my surprise, I see nothing out of the ordinary. No signs of pursuit, no commotion. There’s no shouting, no flashing lights. Surely the young Greenshirt has alerted his comrades by now.

I keep walking, briskly but steadily, along the entertainment circle. I probably should leave this neighborhood, slipping down one of the radial streets to a new ring. But it feels too dangerous to head directly home. Without a lens implant to scan, they can’t know who I am, who my family is. I don’t dare take the chance of leading the authorities directly to my home.

Or I could branch outward, away from the Center, toward the outer rings. I’ve studied maps of Eden, and I’m pretty confident that I could navigate through the rings and radii that make up this huge city. But simply being in this crowd is incredibly nerve-racking—and these are highly civilized inner circle people who are well educated, wealthy, and polite. As you get farther from the Center, though, the well-maintained single-family homes and brightly lit shops gradually turn to crowded high-rises where the middle class live, and crowded sidewalks where the pedestrians will trample you to get to their offices on time. Or so I’ve heard from Ash, who has only rarely been more than a few circles away from home.