Release Date: 11/12/13
Summary from Goodreads:
Clans are Unity.
No variation. No deviation.
On Clades, to be a Clan is to be an exact copy.
A perfect society cloning themselves to survive, even as the zombielike Frags threaten to overrun them on an unforgiving planet.
Clan 1672 (privately known as Twain) was never supposed to survive the Incubation Tank.
But he did. Illegally.
He is different from the other Clans.
A secret that could destroy him.
this fast-paced novel, Lovejoy uses economical prose while developing
the story’s characters and setting in detail. She also meets the
challenge of creating memorable characters in a world of identical
Twain heard a muffled voice behind the closed door. “Don’t be alarmed. He’s had… some unfortunate events. But he is a Clan and Father Krume approved his attendance. Remember, we must be Unified.”
Twain took a breath. Are the Clans going to scream and run when they see me?
With a shiver, he pushed the square button on the door. It opened.
Around thirty Clans were standing. Each head whipped around—all nearly identical to his own. Twain froze. He quickly lowered his eyes.
A middle-aged Clan stood with his arms crossed in front of the room. He was a First-Batcher with the number three on his uniform. It must be Luge.
“The new Clan,” Luge said. “Number…”
Twain caught the man’s eyes and straightened so that Luge could see the number on his shirt.
“1672,” Luge finished. Not looking at Twain further, Luge pointed toward the back of the room. “Take your shoes off and go stand.”
The floor was softly illuminated. Over an empty spot, two footprints lit up—the place where he was supposed to stand. Twain hurriedly took his shoes off and lined them up next to the other shoes against the wall. He strode over, watching his bare feet bloom with light around the edges from the floor. He was like a locust on white paper—easy to inspect. He instinctively bowed his head as he walked, his bangs hanging around his eyes like curtains. Nobody else had bangs; they all had Buzzer Cap hair, two inches long, a little longer toward the forehead, trimmed the first day of every month by the Buzzer Cap machine.
The Clans whispered.
“No wonder Twigg kept him locked up.”
“Someone must have taken a piss into his Incubation Tank—”
“What if all of the 1670s were a rotten batch?”
Luge clapped. “Clans—you must be silent or I’ll come around to slap each of your mouths. You know what to do: assume the hexagonal.”
About the Author
Realm Lovejoy is a writer and an
artist. She was raised in Washington State and the alps of Nagano,
Japan. Her father is a Japanese ex-monk and her mother an English
teacher from Rhode Island. Her art is influenced by both the East and
through her writing and art.
She is agented by Jessica Regel.