But I never lost sight of the two you girls bent over a round tub, trying to toss plastic balls into floating dishes. The prize was a koi—genetically engineered to never grow beyond two inches—in iridescent oranges, reds, and greens. Hell, they probably glowed in the dark. The girls were flanked by three bodyguards, beefy mei boys with muscular arms crossed against their bulging chests.

I had volunteered to do this, because if I were caught, I alone would be prosecuted. I would be the only one to be put to death. My friends would be safe. They all had family, or someone who loved them. I was the dispensable one, and I would give my life to protect them.

A you boy strutted toward the girls, his features obscured by his glass helmet from this distance. We called them “bowl heads” in derision, as their helmets looked like fishbowls. His sleek suit was black, with an indigo dragon breathing orange flames woven down one long sleeve. The suit ensured that he got the best oxygen available, that his temperature was regulated, that he was always plugged in to the you communication system. The taller girl in the white-and-silver suit ignored him, intent on winning a koi in a jar, but her petite friend nodded to the bodyguards, and the you boy swaggered through.

I snorted under my breath.

They chatted, probably pulling up info on their com sys, assessing weight, height, and genetic makeup even as they exchanged first names. This was what it meant to be you, to have. To be genetically cultivated as a perfect human specimen before birth—vaccinated and fortified, calibrated and optimized. To have an endless database of information instantly retrievable within a second of thinking the query and displayed in helmet. To have the best air, food, and water, ensuring the longest possible life spans as the world went to rot around them.

Me, I’m like the other 95 percent of the meis in this country—without. We want and are left wanting. I’d be lucky if I lived to forty. I’m almost halfway there.

The you boy fiddled with his collar, then took his helmet off, handing it to one of the bodyguards with studied nonchalance. He coughed for a long time into his sleeve, attempting to adjust to the filth we breathed every day. What a rebel. Without his helmet, I got a better look at him. His blond hair was chin-length, streaked in red, his features Asian. He looked about seventeen.